


And the Armaments Fall to Ash

by samidha



Series: And the Armaments Fall to Ash [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Chronic Pain, Curse Breaking, Cursed Dean, Curses, Demons, Emotionally Hurt Dean, Emotionally Hurt Sam, Eventual Relationships, F/M, Hurt Dean, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam, Hurt Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Incubus Dean, M/M, Multi, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Original Character Demon, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, POV Multiple, Pre-Series, Pre-Stanford, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Assault, Stanford Era, Succubi & Incubi, Supernatural and J2 Big Bang Challenge 2009, Survivor Feels, Survivor Guilt, Survivor of Sexual Assault, Teen Sam, Teen Sam Winchester, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 10:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11311473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samidha/pseuds/samidha
Summary: The summer before Sam's senior year of high school, John Winchester is more caught up in solo hunting than the boys have ever seen him before.  When an incubus' curse befalls Dean, it's up to Sam to save his brother while the curse tests the boundaries of his relationship with Dean.  There are no easy answers and soon both boys are feeling the effects as their lives spin out of control. Guest-starring YED and other denizens of hell.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Art post is here, by Corbeaun, with soundtrack notes
> 
> https://fhionnuisce.dreamwidth.org/1146861.html#cutid1
> 
> Originally written for the Big Bang and finished a bit late (took a long time--has been finished since around 2010 though. Originally posted here and then taken down for a while. It's back. :) )
> 
> Dub con and non-con, scenes with not!Sam. At the start of this story Sam is 18. I followed the timeline set out in John's Journal.
> 
> Please note the author (samidha at the time i.e. me) is a survivor and is aware the fic is twisted. I was not far off from a horrific incident and writing this to try to recover. This is not really anyone's business but because it is so dark I offer this as a bit of explanation. This is literally survivor processing. This is part of why I took it down before.
> 
> Something went weird with the chapters because I moved the outtakes out of the main fic after the fact. The main arc is complete as posted.

_Piece of cake_ , he says. _Anyway, it’s not like you have a choice._ Pulls rank on me just like that, and then I’m soaring up and up and it’s like flying. I could appreciate the irony there if it hadn’t been for the assignment, the epitome of stupid, pitiful grunt work that was sending me away. All because sometime last millennium I forgot to call that yellow-eyed bastard “Sir,” with feeling, thank you very much.

They'll tell you we don’t just call him Fire-Starter or Yellow-Eyes or Smokey the Demon—those names are dismissive—but that’s not exactly accurate. I mean, I do, and I can’t be the only one, no matter how many damn ass-kissers there are downstairs. Mr. I-can-create-the-world-in-six-days-what-can- _you_ -do didn’t exactly invent brown-nosing. He left some things to our guys. Generous of him.

So now, because I didn’t use my powers of creative ass-kissing, I’m watching the yellow-eyed jerk’s golden boy. Data drop-off is once per human week and for that I have to bi-locate so precious Sammy was never out from under the watchful eye of Hell. Give me a break. I’m not someone’s freaking guardian devil.

Except that I am. After a while I start thinking about it, and… Okay. It’s a crappy assignment, but hello, I’m a denizen of Hell. I probably shouldn’t expect much more. Any way you slice it, I was chosen for this, and I can’t imagine Yellow-Eyes is so stupid as to not know my particular brand of sin. So maybe it’s more than that stupid debt of honor, or whatever he wants to call it, that he had in mind when he picked me for this gig. Maybe I don’t care either way. I know my skills, and he never said I couldn’t have a little fun.

I wait for their big bear of a father to get in the black truck—he thinks that thing’s some kind of assurance he’s got more balls than he does, you know—and then I do it. It’s just the flick of a switch. Then another, and that one’s a bonus, but I figure I’m due after all this time staring at closed motel room doors. I’ll collect on that one later. Give things some time to percolate. 

I can almost hear it, the physical sound of what I’ve done from inside their stuffy little room. I don’t have to hear, because I’ve been doing this work since the world began and I know what I’ve done, but the feeling of my handiwork settling so easily into place is sweet in its own right.


	2. Part I.

Dean dreamed. He found himself alone in a dim expanse, cold and empty. He strained to see something, anything, but he was alone and there was no sound. He ached with the cold, willing anything to take shape in the vast nothingness around him.

Finally, he heard the beginnings of a sound, a distant buzz that cut through him to the core, sent him shivering and trying to put more space between himself and the noise. The air was thickening around him as he fought. He saw a speck of black in the distance that grew and shaped itself into a rope of power, speeding toward him and encircling him. The buzzing grew louder as more dark streams joined the first, one slamming Dean right between the eyes and seeming to sift through his mind. 

Dean bent double, feeling the ropes thickening around him until he wished for the terrible cold of moments before because now there was nothing but heat and the crackle of flames and one long, terrible scream from a thousand voices. 

The power pushed further into Dean and his body was not his own as he straightened and he saw through the swirling chaos of the darkness to the other side. 

Sam stood there, standing slouched in an easy calm, looking in Dean's direction but not seeing him. Sam was bathed in a soft light edging into golden, untouched by the power that held Dean now. Sam was--

 _Beautiful_. The thought came from outside of Dean, as if from within the darkness itself. _So beautiful. Want him. You will take him. You will have him. Sammy._

_No!_

Dean bolted upright on the thin, hard motel mattress. He was soaked in sweat, a line of it dripped into his eyes as he moved. He closed them and worked to slow his breathing. His skin felt too tight and thin. 

His usual instinct was to look over at Sammy, and he couldn’t stop himself even though the memory of the dream was still so fresh. Dread twisted inside of him. _Not safe. Not safe._

There Sam was, curled up tight and breathing in the easy rhythm of peaceful sleep and for two seconds it was okay, they were okay, until…. All the images came flooding back to Dean so fast and thick he couldn’t breathe. He had to look away from Sam, had to get up and run for the toilet. 

It felt like he lost every meal he’d eaten across the last two states, and he kept heaving like he could do it all again. Sammy’s voice came through the door, thick with worry, and Dean had to heave up bile again before he could answer, which…. Great. Real reassuring.

“Yeah, Sammy,” he tried to say, but there was only air barely escaping his ruined throat, so he cleared it, wincing, and tried again. Hoarse, this time, but audible. “Yeah, Sammy, I’m ‘kay,” he managed.

“Are not. Do you need—“ Sam’s hand was on the doorknob.

“No!” 

“Okay.” Sam sounded skeptical, but wounded. Shit.

Dean scrambled to his feet, leaning his forehead on the rim of the sink. A fresh wave of nausea hit him, and, God, if this didn’t stop soon he was going to put his head through the wall. 

But nausea was the least of Dean's problems. Worse, he was still feeling the press of heat, the _wrongness_ behind his eyes, like it had followed him out of the dream, like it was... _settling_... inside him. Over everything there was an ache (want, need, take, have, _fuck_ ) for Sam, all twisted up and out of nowhere because Dean wouldn't ever-- Why the fuck would Dean even think-- Before he could stop himself, his hands were moving downward. Sam’s face was there in his mind's eye as Dean’s fingers moved over the crotch of his jeans to his zipper, and oh, God, he wished he could throw up again. He wished he could do anything but this.

He had the presence of mind to get the water running in the sink and then both of his hands were stroking and pumping like they weren’t even his, because he wouldn’t do this, not like this. He could only hope Sam had gone back to his bed or at least wasn’t hovering there with one hand so close to the doorknob. It was over so fast, the physical part of it, like he’d never done this before, was shocked into coming by the feel of his own palm on his dick. 

He knew it wasn’t over, though. Right then Dean felt like it might not ever be, because somehow just zipping his jeans back up sent the sick feeling through him again. Like he could go through all that again, right now, like maybe he had to. And as soon as he admitted that last part to himself he was ripping the zipper down again. Oh, Jesus, he was sick.

He sank all the way to the floor, then, slammed himself backward into the bowl of the toilet, catching his shoulder and the side of his head, and all he could feel was relief because that stopped it. He felt only the barest buzz of worry when he heard Sam’s voice reaching fever pitch again. Yeah, Sam was on the other side of the room, probably on his bed. Small miracles….

“Dean!”

“S’okay, Sammy, I’m good now, promise.”

“Dean…” Sam said, “Can you come out?” Sam's voice was softer, a little shaky.

“Yeah, Sammy, yeah. Right now, okay?” Dean scrambled up. He thought about kicking something, giving himself another jolt of physical pain to keep the slimy, sick feeling away. But Sam was already pretty freaked out and he didn't have to make that worse. So he headed back into the main room, hoping that he'd already done enough. 

The bump on Dean's head was definitely conspicuous enough for Sam to notice it right away. His little brother crossed the room to him and put a hand on Dean's shoulder with a murmured, "Jesus, Dean," and Dean knew the moment that Sam registered the knotted muscle under his fingers, still warm from impact. 

With his brother touching him, Dean stumbled under the sudden weight of _want need Sammy_ and he hated that he made a noise in his throat but at least he could pass it off as a reaction to pain and not just him being a sick, sick fuck.

"You... fell? D'you think you're gonna... pass out or anything?"

Dean snorted, grateful for the rush of indignation at Sam's question. "Tripped," he muttered. "'M'fine."

"Sounded like you went down like a ton of bricks, Dean, you sure?"

"I'm fine, Sam. It's the flu or something."

"Okay." Sam let him go and Dean closed his eyes, swaying a little until Sam got a hand on his arm and propelled him toward the bed. 

Dean was so screwed.

*~*~*

Dean spent the rest of the day shivering under his blankets, trying not to watch Sam watching him. Nothing had changed. Dean's skin still felt too tight, like there was an added layer of sludge pushing up from underneath and he couldn't even look at Sam without feeling like the darkness was rising up again, but from inside him now. He was holding the nausea at bay for the moment, but he'd already made two more trips to the bathroom. The second time, with the tingling heat still running through him, he said _christo_ into the mirror, staring in confusion when he actually managed to get the word out.

_Great. What the fuck is this?_

The flu. It would just have to be the flu until Dean had some time to think. For now, Sam seemed willing to take his word for it. He kept watching Dean close with that look in his eyes that said, "Don't think I don't know something's up," the one he had already perfected by the time he was eight. Sometimes Dean wished his brother wasn't so goddamn smart. He shivered and kept his eyes closed while Sam watched him, and he felt the exact moment when Sam slid his eyes away, decided to let it go for now.

Dean let his brother offer him Pepto and the other over-the-counter medicines that he pulled from their med kit. He knew none of those things would do any good, but the song and dance bought Dean some time to think; gave them both the temporary illusion that Sam could help, even if every time Dean lost it into the toilet again ripped that illusion back down.

But the nausea was nothing next to the pain, and Dean was no stranger to dealing with that either. He could almost convince himself that this was just some bizarre illness after all, something that was going to pass, except for the insistent murmurings inside his head that weren't--couldn't be--his, the darkness that rose inside of him every time he focused his attention on Sam for too long.

There was no way Dean was going to be able to avoid telling Sam some part of the truth for much longer. He couldn't hide from Sam forever. Hell, he wasn't even hiding now. Sam was just studiously ignoring what was right in his face because Dean had told him it was the damn flu and if Dean really wanted to believe that, he knew Sam would pretend to, at least until he couldn't anymore.

Dean didn't know when that would be but it couldn't be long.

The evening light started to fade toward night and Dean registered how worn down he really was. As soon as he'd given it the slightest passing thought he found himself drifting off.

And he dreamed.

This time the power whirled up and around him much faster, pulled up from inside of him in a way that made his gut twist even in his sleep and filling Dean's field of vision. _You will take him!_ Here in a dream, the words came in a buzzing cacophony and Dean thought he might have smelled smoke and he had to _get out!_

Dean pulled himself from the dream faster this time but when he came back to himself-- Dean stood, shaking, beside his bed facing Sam and oh, God. Sam--

"Dean?" Sam was sitting up in bed, swinging his legs over the side, like he was thinking about coming toward him. "You need something?"

Dean backpedaled until his legs hit his own mattress and he shook his head.

"Something got you out of bed."

_Oh, fuck, Sam._

"Hey. it's okay, Dean," Sam said and stood up. Dean couldn't back up any further and he needed to tell Sam to get the fuck away from him but he couldn't, and things like that had never worked on Sam on a good day and oh, shit. Sam was crossing the room to him, reaching out to brace him. With Sam's hands on him everything went still and quiet. Dean couldn't even panic anymore, and he should have been because Sam didn't know, couldn't know--

"That helps, right?"

 _Shit._ But it did. Of course it did.

Dean thought of Sam passing him the bottle of Pepto, how every time they touched-- Sam must have seen the shivering stop and oh, fuck. Sam didn't know everything, he _couldn't_ , but he held onto Dean and kept his eyes steadily on Dean's face.

"It isn't the flu, Dean, but we'll figure it out--"

"I could be possessed, Sammy."

Sam smiled his _yeah, or something_ smile. "You're not."

"You don't know--"

"Okay. Christo."

Nothing happened. "You dumbass. What if I _had been_?"

"Heard you say it in there," Sam said, and maybe he looked a little too pleased with the power of his deductive reasoning. Maybe Dean should be pissed off right now, but he wasn't. "We'll figure it out, okay? In the meantime you don't have to be miserable, Dean, so just--" He tugged his brother gently back in the direction of his bed and Dean followed. 

Sam looked Dean right in the eyes, tired but resolute, almost like Dad, but what he actually said didn't sound like Dad at all. “It’s okay," he said. "Stay here, Dean. I can take care of you tonight.” Clear and certain like Sam knew he could. Dean shouldn't have let himself believe Sam. He should have been doing anything to put some distance between them, but the voice in his head was quiet for the first time since that morning, and his body was his again, and he could breathe. All he could think of right now was that whatever was happening to him had stopped for the moment.

“I’ll get you some water, okay? It tastes like rotten eggs, but you should really have some so you don’t get—“

“Yeah. Okay, Sammy. Thanks.”

He closed his eyes, but he could still feel Sam smiling.

“It’s not a problem, I’m glad to do it,” Sam said, all firm and earnest and like Dean was worth any of this, and Dean’s stomach rolled again.

Sam must have seen something in his face, because he was all firm reassurances. “Okay. You’re going to be okay, Dean.”

Dean stayed frozen there, equally unable to save face by just going back to his own bed, or to say anything. There was nothing safe to say about this.

Sam reached out and put a hand on Dean’s arm. Dean relaxed into it, relief completely filling him. Sam wasn’t going to send him away. Fucked up or not, it was what Dean needed to know. They could still be okay.

Dean didn’t deserve for them to be okay, but it was what he needed and he would take it.

Sam’s arms went up around Dean again. “Okay,” he said, “Jesus. Can you--no, okay, we'll just... C'mere. We'll get you--warm. Or just-- C'mere, Dean."

"Sam--"

"Just lay down. I got you, Dean.”

“Sammy….”

Dean wanted to say, “No. You don't know,” and, “there’s something wrong with me,” and “I don’t know what to do,” but that last part was a lie and he couldn’t get the other words out. 

Then, when he touched Sam’s face and Sam’s eyes widened, he thought of Sammy’s heart, how if he did this he was going to twist his brother up like crazy and they were going to be so very, very beyond screwed, and he wanted to say “I’m sorry,” but he couldn't let go, he couldn't. Sam went still and stared up at him as if he was seeing Dean for the first time. Sam opened his mouth but no sound came out. There was only silence between them until, finally, Dean spoke. In a rough, broken voice that was barely his he said, “I just--need-- Please,” and Sam seemed to relax and nodded.

Dean kissed his brother then, the word “Please,” on his lips again, pushing into Sam’s mouth with Dean’s breath. Sam started to shake and Dean climbed into the bed properly. He put his arms protectively around Sam even though he knew he was the one Sam needed protection from. But Sam pressed into him and murmured, "I got you. God-- Dean. Dean."

The relief was more total than Dean could have expected. For a long moment he just lay there, soaking up the feeling of Sam beside him, knowing for the first time that he could have this. With the pain gone, he could think, think about Sam's arms around him, calling his name, and how safe he suddenly felt.

Sam squirmed in Dean’s arms, pulling free just enough to be able to reach Dean. When his own hands went to Dean’s face they were still tentative, in a way that Dean’s stubborn, demanding little brother had never been before. This, though, this was new--this was--

This was what he needed.

Dean sprung into action, his body answering to the need coursing through him. Everything was white-hot and desperate and beautiful. When he kissed Sam, it was like drinking him in and letting Sam fill him, fill all the cracks and spaces and blot out every ache Dean had ever had. It was nothing like anything. It was Sam. Sam and Dean, being everything to each other like they always had, only now it was more. It was perfect. It was bliss. Sam in his arms and his, just his, with Dean’s name on his lips.

*~*~*

Morning. Dean woke completely curled around Sam. When he tried to pull away, slip back inside himself, resolved to just—act normal, that sick tingling pain surfaced again, body-wide and blinding after a whole night without it. He reached blindly up to his forehead, shaking, but only one hand actually made it there, while the other grabbed frantically for Sam and relief.

It came, though aftershocks of the tingling burn flew along Dean’s nerves, clenched his throat and his gut. Sam woke with a groan.

“What—?”

“S-sam,” Dean forced out, because now, now he couldn’t not say it. “Something’s wrong with me.”

Sam blinked, sleep and bewilderment on his face at first, but as they both registered the slurred struggle of Dean’s words his face cleared. Sam could protest his part in this life all he wanted, but with that hard, focused look on his face he was none other than John Winchester’s son.

“Okay,” Sam said slowly. “I see that. Gonna need more.”

Dean shook his head, looked away.

“No. Tell me. I can make it an order—“

“You can’t order me,” Dean hissed. 

“You’re incapacitated,” Sam said, his tone going deeper and harder as he relied on the words their father would use. “If you can’t tell me what’s—“ Sam broke off. 

Dean blew out a long breath that almost turned into a gag—Jesus, his head, his…just… everything. Even holding on to Sam. He held on tighter anyway—it helped—and started to speak.

“I can’t…let go. Hurts so bad when I let go ‘f you, Sammy.”

Sam's expression darkened into something hard and unreadable. He stared at Dean, and whatever Sam was thinking, Dean knew it was nothing good.

"You didn't go anywhere--"

Dean felt the color draining out of him. He didn't like how dark Sam's eyes were, the way he was watching Dean like he was some kind of puzzle to be solved. "No!" He sounded defensive even to his own ears. "You've seen how I've been. Jesus, Sam."

"I'm trying to help you," Sam said, "I'm trying to.... We have to.... If something got to you then...."

The fierceness started to slip out of him then, just a little, so Dean could see his little brother under there again and he nodded. "Okay. Yeah. No, I haven't left this goddamn shit-hole." 

He hoped for a quirk of his brother's lips or something but he didn't get one. Then again, he seemed to be playing the part of the Amazing Velcro Brother in one creepy-as-hell two-man production, so maybe if Sam was a little too weirded out to be amused right now, that was okay.

"Okay. Start from the beginning, then," Sam prompted. He sounded so much like he was hand-holding some civilian on a case that Dean thought about rolling his eyes. But Sam's eyes were dark and serious.

So Dean started from the beginning.


	3. Part II.

Sam made him tell the whole story, and then he repeated it back to Dean and let his brother correct anything he'd gotten wrong. Sam stayed pressed so close to Dean under the covers. Sam had been in really close range of Dean since all of this started, he was realizing now. He should have known--

That was stupid. He knew it was stupid. But something had gotten to Dean and Sam hadn't been able to stop it and that was his fault. He'd been right there and they hadn't even been on a hunt and something had gotten to Dean. He'd been right there.

Sam had been over the events of that first day a dozen times while Dean went over his story. There wasn't much of anything to go over. They were stuck in one miserable little room. They hadn't even been alone long enough for the Cup o' Noodles' to run out. Dean hadn't gone anywhere. It didn't make any sense.

"Earth to Sam," Dean said, snapping his fingers in front of Sam's face until he blinked and sighed.

"Yeah, sorry. So... I better start--research." Sam rubbed at his forehead and pushed the beginnings of the bangs he was growing back from his face.

"Okay," Dean said slowly, watching Sam close.

"We have to do something," Sam said.

"I know. I just...can't, um," Dean studied the sheets pooled around them. 

Sam nodded, keeping his own eyes on Dean. "Just grabbing the laptop," he said, grateful for the refurbished Mac he'd managed to scrape together the money for last spring.

Dean opened his mouth and looked like he was considering cracking a joke about his geek brother but instead he just nodded, relief all over his face.

"One sec, okay?" Sam warned, and then he darted out of the bed and over to their bags, pulling the computer free.

He settled it on the end of the bed and then pulled on his clothes from the day before as quickly as he could before settling in beside Dean again. 

He couldn't have taken more than three minutes, but Dean was already sitting up and sagging forward, arms around his middle and riding another wave of nausea. Sam braced him from behind, for once grateful for his awkwardly-long arms as he hooked the trash can easily and brought it up in front of Dean.

"Okay?" he murmured, and Dean shook his head, raising one hand to flip him off.

"Well, if you've got enough energy to be pissed off it must be easing up a little, right?"

Dean groaned and nodded before he spit a string of bile into the trash can. "That's it," he croaked.

"Sure?"

"S'better," Dean said and sagged back against Sam.

"Okay. Need my arm back when you're ready," he said as he lowered the trash can to the floor again.

Dean nodded and sat forward again and Sam pulled free just enough to be able to open and boot up the computer. He felt Dean shimmy closer under the sheet and then sag back against the pillows. When Sam glanced back at him he found his brother was already asleep.

Three hours later, the only thing Sam knew for sure was that he had a tension headache. Sam was no idiot--it was just really hard to think right now with his brother clamped onto him like this and no one that it was safe to talk about the case they were suddenly finding themselves in the middle of. He--

He needed a person, someone who might know about spells and curses. He needed to talk to someone, and fast.

Googling around might give him plenty of stupid rudimentary Wicca ( _Need him to want you back? Try our irresistable sex spell!_ ) but if he was going to pick someone out to help his brother he was going to need to feel them out in person. Which would follow naturally from feeling them out on the phone. Sam would never be as practiced as Dean when it came to hunting, but he had a good ear for bullshit.

Sam typed a few quick sentences out for Dean on the laptop (GONE TO MAKE CALLS...), blew them up to 20pt. font and left the machine on his side of Dean's bed before he pulled on his shoes and darted outside.

Sam slipped out the motel room door and around the side of the building. When he was out of plain sight of the parking lot, he finally let out the breath he had been holding back. Jesus. Jesus.

Sam felt sick. But he didn’t have time for that, or stupid grief over any of this. He needed to act. There had to be a way to put the lid on this. If he could do that, then maybe he’d earn a little time to think—but not until then. He didn’t have anything good to think about, anyway.

Sam found his way to the pay phone at the end of the block of rooms, and the phone book hooked onto a metal cord on the inside. He felt more than a little ridiculous pawing through the small Yellow Pages, honestly looking for the word PSYCHIC, but such was the way in the Winchester life. He needed an answer fast, he reminded himself—before their father got back if he knew what was good for him and Dean both. So he gritted his teeth and scanned the page.

He barked out a laugh at the first name he saw: Mysterious Magickal Madam Mim. Uh, no. Dad might get a laugh out of that one—Dean would definitely get a rusty chuckle out of it, too, but he’d leave it at that, thanks. He kept scanning the page.

Rodney Fuller. His advertisement was small, no-nonsense. Thick bold text but nothing fancier. Sam felt stupid when he finally pulled the payphone receiver off the hook, but he’d be dealing with a lot worse than this if he didn’t manage to do something. This was something.

Sam was still drawing in a breath to speak when Rodney made his introduction irrelevant.

“Sam Winchester,” the man said, sending a shiver down his spine.

“I— How did you—?”

“Boy, you’ve been broadcastin’ like a radio station since you rolled into town. You best get over here, your brother’s going to need some mojo quick as we can get it to him.”

Sam swallowed. He would not think about how much this man knew. He would not. “Yes… yes, sir.”

“You know where I’ll be.”

Fuller was standing out on his porch when Sam arrived in front of the gray-sided house serving as Fuller’s home base. He stood a good two inches taller than Sam, with dark skin, surprisingly warm brown eyes and a thick, sturdy frame. Over the doorway Sam saw a short row of symbols he thought maybe looked familiar from Dad’s journal, but what they meant was lost to him. He tried to forget the things he’d read out of it unless strictly necessary.

Which might have been how he’d ended up in this mess to begin with. Or at least why he was still in it.

“I didn’t start on makin’ you a mojo bag,” Fuller said. “Since I guess we should talk about this and you weren’t here yet. But I’m about ready to get to work if you are.”

“Yes. Yeah. Of course. Thanks.” Dimly, Sam was aware that he might benefit from even a little bit of caution, but he probably didn’t have any more time to be wasting right now. Dean definitely didn’t.

Fuller led Sam into his dining room, where he had arranged several glass jars of powders, a pair of barber’s scissors, nail clippers, and what looked like several ritual knives. He tapped the top of a dining room chair with one large, dark hand and Sam pulled it out and sat.

“So. You got an idea what you’re dealin’ with, boy?”

“Um. Think so….”

Fuller raised an eyebrow and smiled a little in a way that was so like Dean when he knew he was rapidly forcing Sam into a ridiculously awkward situation. Sam almost laughed.

“Well, I got my own theory as to why you’re here but I might as well hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

Sam closed his eyes briefly, reminding himself that this was important, too important to let embarrassment get in the way.

“I think it’s--he's been,” Sam chose his words carefully, thinking about what he knew of hoodoo, "maybe hexed or crossed and he's... been having a problem with compulsive sex."

“Mmhmm. And your brother… sent you… to take care of his—sex problem?”

Sam flushed red-hot. “He doesn’t know I’m here. Exactly.”

“Didn’t think he would. All right. That changes the recipe a little,” Fuller said. “Be right back.”

He came back with a wide smirk and a little paper cup. “You can use this last,” he said, putting it in front of Sam with a completely unnecessary flourish. “Don’t worry, we’re puttin’ enough else in the mix, nobody but us has got to know.” 

No choice now but to keep going. He definitely couldn’t take having this conversation a second time with a second stranger.

Fuller picked up the scissors and stepped up beside Sam, regarding him with a critical eye. “This...problem. It _is_ tied to you, hm?”

Sam winced. “More or less,” he said.

The man chuckled. “Ain’t no ‘more or less’ about it, boy, but I take your point. A’ight then. You wouldn’t be doin’ much good here if it wasn’t.” He leaned in a little and snipped a lock of Sam’s hair, then handed Sam the nail clippers. He carried the hair and nail clippings to his own seat and then started separating it into small batches, laying about three of them to the side and one in front of him. Then he passed Sam the smaller of the two ritual knives. “Need your blood, too.”

Sam nodded, took the knife, and plunged it into his palm before he could think any more about it.

“Whoo. You’re upset about this one, ain’tcha.”

Sam smiled without any humor and eyed the man expectantly.

“It can go in the cup,” he said. 

Sam covered the little paper cup with his bloody palm and waited.

The man nodded. “Knotweed, white oak bark, devil's shoestring, barberry, uncrossing powder, dog fennel, dill leaf, poppy seed. I’ll give ya a version of this recipe in case you ever… need it again. Shouldn’t, but you never know. You go on an’ take care of what you need to, now, an’ we’ll add all that when you get back.” He had taken one of the small bundles of Sam’s hair and was dumping it and the herbs into a small bowl as Sam stood up. Fuller gestured with one hand deeper into his small house. “On the right. Can’t miss it.”

In the end, Sam thought he probably could have been more self-conscious, hesitant, but something was propelling him, urgency winning out until all the anger, the frustration, the nervousness fell away. This was just one more thing--for Dean. In the end, he barely had to do a thing.

Fuller nodded to him, business-like, when Sam passed him the cup with hands that almost didn’t shake. The man’s face had changed, gone still, like he was deep inside himself. He was murmuring words Sam didn’t understand, grinding and mixing the herbs and Sam’s hair together in an even rhythm. He upended the contents of Sam’s cup over the bowl, adding a pink tint of blood and come to the mix, and kept chanting, maybe a little louder now.

Sam kept his eyes on him, not really watching all the same. 

Fuller got up and went into the back of the house again, returning with four zip-loc bags and three little paper lunch sacks. He started spooning the mixture into them. “Now you’ll have extra. Just in case. Keep this on you and you’ve done the hard part—you claimed him back. You boys each carry one a few days and it’ll--block your scent, or close to it… When he’s feeling a little better he needs to do his own, so the protection's better tied to him.”

“Another bag?”

“Mm. And you boys better keep 'em hidden or they'll lose the power. Then you gotta mix up another batch."

They were quiet for a moment as Fuller watched Sam, seeming to measure him. "Now, you listen. This is important. You got to know something. This ain't a small thing's been done to your brother. It's bigger than you think. He ain't crossed by some pissed off girlfriend, you get my meaning?" The look on his face told Sam he expected the answer to be yes, but he still waited for Sam to nod his agreement.

"This is bigger stakes than I ever dealt with before, boy, and I don't know what that means but it ain't nothin' good. Now, these," he gestured to the herbal mixture and the batches of ingredients he had already completed, "are what I can give you, but you gotta know there's only so much I can do with something this big. I can't end this. And I'm not gonna lie and tell you I know what can."

Sam nodded again and swallowed, feeling sick and cold inside. 

With his warning finished, Fuller went back to work. He pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket and scribbled onto it for a few moments before raising it to Sam’s eye level and saying, “Recipes. His and yours, just in case. Don’t you ever think I ain’t got a heart for people in need,” he said and grinned. It reminded Sam of a wolf. No. A werewolf. 

“You want anythin’ else? Yourself? Extra blood root? Catnip?”

Sam blinked. He did not want to know anything more about this man and his stupid herbs. “No. No, this will be fine.”

The man nodded. “Fair ‘nough.”

Sam brought out his wallet and pulled all the cash out of it. Wasn’t much, the last of the money he’d earned during school last year tutoring in bio and history, but Sam left the hustling and the gambling to Dad and Dean, thanks. 

Fuller eyed the bills lying on his table with an amused expression. He reached in and picked up one of the fives, pointedly handing it back to Sam. “I don’t bleed a man dry of everything he’s got,” he said. “Now, you get yourself back to that boy of yours an’ don’t let me hear from you again. You got a problem worse than this, I dunno what I’ll be able to do for you.”

Sam nodded his thanks and left without a word. It didn’t even feel safe to breathe until he was outside.

Sam needed to make one more stop, and fast. He had passed a box store on the way over here, and now he doubled back to it. He moved quickly through the store, finding the right section and spending just long enough looking over the shelf to find a planner in black, one that would hold loose papers and close up against prying eyes, like Dad’s. Walking back to the motel—finally—he slipped Fuller’s recipes inside and snapped the planner closed.

When Sam got back to the motel room, he found Dean still laying on the bed, curled tightly in on himself and shaking. Tear tracks were clear on his face when Sam got close enough to see them. He dumped the bags on the bed and bent over his brother.

“Dean….”

No response. Dean’s eyes were open but glassy with shock or—or pain—both.

Fuck.

Sam did this. He fucking left. He didn't think and he left. He left Dean like this.

Sam put a hand on his arm and Dean drew in a sharp breath, his eyes clearing just enough for Sam to see his brother under all the misery.

“Dean, I’m sorry….” The words were so empty. Pathetic. They were nothing.

“Sammy?” Dean’s voice was the barest whisper, but he was there.

“Yeah.” Sam forced words out around the lump in his throat. “Yeah, Dean, I’m here. I’m sorry—I—I’ve got you now. Hold on.” 

He remembered the night before, how they had coiled around each other like snakes, and nearly every part of Dean had been touching him. He climbed back onto the bed beside Dean and pulled his brother tight against him. Dean relaxed into the contact and Sam felt a rush of relief he probably didn’t deserve.

“You’re back,” Dean said thickly, and like he might have stayed away and Sam felt himself splintering. He’d been gone too long (fuck, Jesus, fuck, fuck) and Dean was like this, alone and like this. Even now he shivered against Sam’s body.

“Yeah. I... I found someone who—“ Sam reluctantly reached around to one of the little paper sacks and pulled out one of the mojo bags. “Here.” He put it into Dean’s hand and closed his brother’s fingers around it.

Dean let out a long sigh and Sam felt his shaking stop. “Oh,” Dean said, weary and surprised. “S’good, Sam….”

“Okay. It works. Good.”

“What did you do?”

“I found someone to make you a mojo bag. He—“

“Wait, you--Sam! You just told some guy?”

“He was a hoodoo practitioner. What was I supposed to do, Dean? You needed help.”

Dean sighed, rubbing his forehead and oozing frustration, but finally he nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

“So… He says you’re going to need this stuff from now on, until we figure out how to break it. He gave me some extras and the recipe. Actually, you need to make one yourself to keep it… strong, or whatever. Anyway, your recipe’s in here.” He pulled out the planner and braced himself for Dean to ask more questions, for Dean to find out everything Sam did at the hoodoo man’s house.

Dean didn’t open it, though. He ran his hands over the black leather of the planner and grinned, even with the exhaustion all over his face. “Sammy. You got me a journal.”

Sam offered a small smile and a shrug. “Figured Dad wouldn’t go in there.”

The grin was gone, just nervous exhaustion in its place now. “Jesus. Dad. Don't even-- If he-- We gotta—put this somewhere.”

Sam stared for a second, scared of what could happen if he moved away from Dean. But he was right, so Sam nodded and peeled himself away from Dean reluctantly. Dean drew in a quick breath, but his face and eyes stayed clear. His gaze lingered for a long moment on the new journal as Sam held his hand out for it, but he let Sam take it gently from him and slip it into the very bottom of Dean’s duffle. 

With that done, Sam crossed back over to Dean’s bed. He knew Dean didn’t need him now, but after seeing what he had left his brother to (what he had done to him, fuck, fuck) that afternoon, Sam didn’t want to let him go again. He lay down beside Dean again, over the covers this time, and just draped an arm over him. Dean didn’t move closer, or reach out for Sam at all, but he didn’t move away and he quickly drifted into real, easy sleep, and that was enough.


	4. Part III.

Dean sat on the hood of the Impala, periodically bracing himself with a palm against the metal. Sam made a point not to notice the way Dean shifted periodically to increase his contact with the metal of the car.

Sam bit his lip and hung back, forcing down the urge to run up and touch his brother, chasing away the last vestiges of pain. Dean was putting together the mix of herbs, hair, and bits of his nails for the mojo with a studied look of distaste on his face. 

Sam walked up and sat on the far side of the hood, a safe distance. He waited.

They sat in near-silence for a good fifteen minutes while Dean mixed the herbs, his leather jacket creaking as he shifted and settled into work again. Sam kept his eyes on the motel room door, brown-red paint and a crooked six that Sam could pull off the door with two fingers. Sam stared that stupid piece of metal down like it had a part in what had happened to his brother, like it had helped to plan, to shape this curse. That was simpler, easier than the truth. Dean was tied to Sam, and that meant Sam had done this. Somehow. Sam felt the bite of his nails into his palm and clenched his fist harder, hoping to draw blood.

Sam felt the exact moment that Dean finished the bag and tucked it against himself and let out a long breath. His relief was palpable in the air and for a moment Sam felt what might have been hope, the seeds of some kind of peace.

Dean hopped down off the hood in the next second, moving with purpose. With his mojo in place, Dean was already moving with his usual comfortable confidence that had been all but gone in the last week. Sam smiled despite himself. 

"Take a picture, why don'tcha," Dean muttered, but he offered a small smile of his own in return. "That guy you found knows his shit, Sammy. Nice work."

Sam felt his cheeks heating at the memory of the time in Fuller's house. "Yeah. Guess he does."

Dean clapped him on the shoulder. "So. You good here for a while?"

Sam's eyes widened. "You--Dean, it's been five minutes! Not even!"

Dean stiffened beside him. "Yeah, well," he began slowly, like he was trying to convince them both at once. "I've been attached to you at the hip for how long now?" Now he was resolute. "Sam, I like you and everything, but a man's got to have his space. Besides, I've got things to...."

Sam's stomach twisted. "Don't finish that thought," he said. "I get the picture. Trust me." Sam tried to pretend the gleam in Dean's eye was a familiar and safe one, expectant and confident. The one that meant he'd have a girl on his arm before the hour was out. He tried to tell himself Dean was steady and sure as he'd always been. That they'd found the best answer to the curse they could and Dean was Dean, once and forever. They were following pattern, and Dean's hands weren't shaking. He wasn't watching Sam so close, so close like that.

Dean continued like this was any other day, just another opportunity to wind his brother up. "Sammy, I'm just sayin'--"

"Whatever it is, you don't have to say it." Sam had to play along. He had to. If he couldn't do that now, they were fucked, so unbelievably fucked. Sam just had to.

"Oh, but you blush so _pretty_ , bro."

"Jesus. Don't call me bro."

"Am I offending your grammatical sensibilities, geek boy?"

"More than that."

"That's because I'm awesome."

"Whatever."

This was wrong. Sam knew this was wrong. He needed to stop playing the game. Dean couldn't--they didn't know if he'd be _safe_. Dean practically pulled himself out of Sam's space, the movement jerky and unnatural. Like he'd had to talk himself into it, and Sam knew he needed to tell Dean, "Don't go." But then he'd have to say, "It's all right to be scared. We don't know what's out there in the dark. Not now. Not like this."

And he couldn't say that. Dean couldn't hear that. 

He stood frozen in place, listening while Dean laughed with cartoonish glee, too high and loud and _wrong_. The ache of dread grew in his chest as Dean reached the driver's side door and climbed into the Impala. Dean started the engine, sat back with a satisfied smile (too wide, too many teeth, the eyes all wrong; oh, fuck), and pumped his fist in the air as he pulled out of the motel lot.

*~*~*

Dean breathed easier the moment the door of the Impala closed, sheltering him in the familiar. His smile was shaky but real as he felt the engine turn over for the first time in days. He loved Sam--more than anything, but his nerves were fraying. Even thinking that sent waves of guilt all through him. He knew Sam was only doing his best against whatever the hell had gotten to him, but Dean found himself itching for space and time away all the same.

He drove from the motel down the main drag in this gray, flat place full of nothing and he did not think about his brother's hands holding him steady, his chest pressed up against Dean's back. Dean only wanted a whiskey and a pool cue fitted easily in his grasp, angled over the table. He would play just to hear the balls break in front of him, watch the colors spill out all over the stained felt. He would drink whiskey dry and just play, no money on the table, no image on the table either. Dad wasn't here. Sam wasn't here.

He pulled into a lot, wheels skittering over broken pavement, and he patted the dash. "Sorry, baby," he said. "I needed to get out of there." The Impala settled into her usual easy silence and he smiled. "Thanks," he told her. It was more than he'd been able to say to her in over a week and the relief at this little bit of normalcy was heady. He headed across the lot and into the bar already feeling refreshed.

He strode inside and took in the patrons. He wasn't there on a job or to play for cash, but he couldn't avoid automatically sizing up the crowd at the bar.

No one to worry about, he noted to himself. He made a beeline for the pool tables in the back and started to rack up a set of balls.

He felt eyes on him and looked up into the ruddy face of a local dressed in jeans and a checkered flannel shirt. The man took his look as an invitation and headed straight for him as Dean placed the last two balls inside the rack--and okay, maybe Dean had just wanted to mess around, but what was pool without someone else to play against, right? Dean ignored the nervousness settling into his gut. He gave the man a half-nod of acknowledgment and lifted the triangle away, getting into position with a cue.

"Let's see you break those," the guy said, chalking up his cue, and right then Dean knew that if he was here for that he could take this guy in a hustle with one hand tied behind his back. There was just... something off about this guy. That wasn't why Dean was here, though, so he let it go.

"Thanks, man. I could really use a game," he said. The guy smiled and Dean settled into place and broke the balls. He managed to sink a red and a green. Not bad at all, especially when he wasn't even really aiming to win.

"Good one!" The guy sounded really excited about this whole thing. He was still smiling and, okay, it was maybe a little weird. 

"Thanks," Dean said. He heard people approaching from the front and saw two more guys coming toward the tables and stop a few feet away as if to watch the game. They were both grinning and just-- _watching_ Dean and yeah, this was all getting to be a bit much.

"Hey, guys, just a friendly game of pool," Dean offered in their direction.

"That was a really good break," the one on the left replied, and Dean wasn't even sure if the guy had been close enough to see the play. Jesus. What the-- Okay. He'd just play it cool. Never mind that he'd been all full up on crazy for days now. He could deal with this.

"Yeah, thanks...." 

A woman in a cream shirt and black pencil skirt was making her way toward them now, moving purposefully toward Dean. The two guys moved apart and shared a conspiratorial grin and--fuck.

The brunette woman stood right beside Dean and put one hand on the edge of the pool table beside him like she fit right there. Dean had an escape route from the three zombie Stooges. He could deal with that. He could get out of here and worry about what the hell all of this meant when he got back to the motel, back to Sam.

"Hey there," Dean said, and raised an arm, giving her a split-second questioning look before he placed it around her shoulders. 

"Let's get out of here," she said, low and warm, and Dean told himself she was just playing along.

"You heard the woman, boys--I never can say no to this one. Guess I'll have to play another time." He'd barely let go of his cue when she started to pull him back toward the front of the room. All the way through the bar he felt eyes on him. Not just the Stooges anymore, but the people at the bar, the bartender behind it, and even at least one of the waitresses who put her platter of drinks down on an empty table and leaned toward him so he could smell her cheap perfume and-- _God_ \--he was getting out of here and that was all he wanted to think about. (Fuck, Sam, what the fuck is this shit now?)

They were outside when Dean finally felt himself relax. No more eyes on him. No more press of totally weird, zombie barflies. Just--

"So," the woman shifted into him, her eyes shining hungrily and, shit, Dean guessed he probably owed her for the save but there was something-- "you gonna take me home?" she asked. Dean felt an all-too-familiar burn starting under his skin and he should have pulled away but he knew it wouldn't do any good. He was moving without thinking, an arm still slung over her shoulder, heading toward his car. He kept his eyes on the cars in front of them as they moved through the lot, not wanting to see her eyes.

"Nice car," she said, and he felt a burst of pride muted by fear. They'd reached the Impala and the buzzing burn under his skin was getting worse and _fuck_ , this wasn't supposed to happen now, he had his stupid mojo bag.

Except it was happening and Sam wasn't here and he needed it to stop. He'd never driven feeling like this and he--

Fuck. The car. Okay. He was standing by his car with this woman. If this was any other day he would take his time, at least long enough to take her home, or anywhere she wanted to go, let her call the shots on her own turf. He was not a douche. But she was moving like she owned him and he knew if he looked into her face she'd be like the Stooges, or--something. He really didn't want her in the car.

"Yeah?" he murmured and pivoted on his feet, pulling her with him and pressing her into the metal of the car, warm in the summer evening air. "You like her?"

"Mm," she offered in agreement and pushed herself up against him, arms going around his neck as she pulled him in for a kiss.

The pain was already starting to ebb away but he knew he couldn't simply wish it away with a kiss. He let the woman lead, her eyes shining with want. They moved quickly, focused and each aching with a separate need. People trickled out of the bar but none came near, as if the power of the curse shielded them from scrutiny.

He pushed up her skirt and fumbled with his own jeans with one hand. They moved together and he focused on her soft moans and whimpers of pleasure and not on the curse or her eyes or--anything. 

He kissed her, he pressed her into his baby's frame with rapid thrusts, and he didn't think.

When it was over they were both wide-eyed and panting. Her gaze was dreamy but clear of the manic gleam of the curse. She hummed quietly under her breath as she walked away, smoothing down her skirt. Dean felt the weight of eyes on him again and got inside the Impala without looking up into the small crowd of grinning people who were gathering in the lot as soon as the woman was gone. 

The pain was gone and he didn't know for how long, but that had to be worth something.

*~*~*

Dean slipped up to the room, moving as quietly as he could. He told himself he would be okay. He was pain-free. He could keep his distance from Sam now, and he'd found another outlet for whatever this was and that was enough. If he felt drained and a litle out of it, well, he could deal with that. He'd had worse--much worse. He just needed some sleep. So he'd just be quiet and not wake Sam--

\--who was sitting up straight against his headboard, indian-style on top of the blankets of his neatly-made bed.

Fuck. Jesus fuck. No. Just no.

"Not funny, Sam. We're not doing this," Dean all but spat.

Sam focused on him squarely, eyes dark and jaw set. "I don't think anything about this is funny, Dean," he said, and it was fucking freaky the way he sounded so hard and rough and so like Dad still. But Sam's stupid bitch-face would always remind Dean of a scorned puppy. He forced himself to focus on that, of the sheer ridiculousness of Sam being angry at him right now. Sam didn't know--Sam had no idea.

"Think whatever you want. Just keep it in that fucked up head of yours. I'm not going to let you _baby-sit_ me, Sam, no matter what you th--"

"We didn't know if you'd be _safe_!" Under Dean's direct challenge, Sam looked more and more the part of Dean's frustrated little brother with every passing moment. "Don't tell me I can't _worry_ , Dean! We don't know what's _happening_ to you!"

"Funny, you seemed to think hoodoo dude had a pretty good idea."

"That doesn't mean he told me--enough to--"

"Ease your control-freaky little mind?"

"We didn't break the curse, Dean."

"Yeah. Thanks for that stunning observation, Sammy."

"So until we do...."

"Until we do, nothing. You can't just...keep doing whatever the hell this is you're trying to do."

"I'm trying to protect you!" Sam's eyes went wide as the words registered, already hanging in the air between them, loose and poisonous.

"You don't get to do that," Dean growled low, words all running together and ripped out of him. He crossed into the tiny bathroom, slamming the door so hard it shook on its hinges.

Dean sagged against the sink, his elbows and knees bent. He rested his forehead against the cool porcelain of the sink and breathed. He left the pain behind with the woman from the bar, but exhaustion lingered. He was spent, wrought out by the curse that they had no real answer for, and he couldn't get away from Sam whether he wanted to or not. He had nothing left in him.

When he came back into the room, Sam kept his attention glued to some dog-eared English department paperback. He didn't even move until Dean had climbed into his own bed by the door, and then all Sam did was turn out the light, pull his own covers back, and climb underneath. 

The next morning, Dean woke to the sound of the phone ringing and rolled over with a groan. There was only one person who knew they were here and would call through to the room. Dad was definitely the last person that he felt like talking to right now. He rubbed his eyes with one hand and reached for the phone with the other.

"Hey, Dad."

Their father sounded more tired than Dean felt, but approval edged into his tone when he answered, "Dean."

Dean wished he was less worn down by everything so he could feel that down into his bones like he always wanted to.

Luckily he didn't have much time to think about that before Dad continued. "Listen. Things are really rough on the road right now."

Over in his bed, Sam turned over, blinked sleepily at him, and then sat up in a rush when he saw the phone in his brother's hand. Sam's gaze met his, probing for a read on what was going on.

He caught Sam's attention and shook his head a little, rolling his eyes as John continued. "I pulled in a favor with a friend of Caleb's so you boys can go and stay somewhere for a little while. Best if I stay on the road. You boys better get moving too. There's a guy in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, needs a property manager for his house out there. It's pretty removed, you and Sammy should be safe."

"Yes, sir."

"So wake Sam up and get your asses on the road," John said gruffly.

"Yes, sir."

"And I don't want you two in any trouble on the way there. You make it a straight shot, understand me?"

He knew better than to disagree. "Yes, sir," he said again.

"Call me when you find the house," John finished. Dean scrambled for a piece of paper and wrote the address hurriedly before their father hung up without a farewell.

He lowered the phone more slowly and Sam stood up, nervous tension running through every line of his body.

He caught Sam's gaze and offered quickly, "He's not coming back." 

The two of them let out relieved sighs in unison as Sam fell back onto his bed and Dean settled back into his pillows with a muffled grunt.

"We head out for Pittsfield today, but I am _not_ moving for another half hour at least."

"Pittsfield?"

"Beats me, it's in Massachusetts somewhere. Do whatever it is you do and get us some directions, willya?" He tapped the piece of motel stationary where he'd scrawled the address.

It wasn't even a full minute before he was asleep again.

They make it out the door an hour and fifteen minutes later. Sam's face was tight with worry by seven-thirty that morning when he said, "You've slept an hour," and "There's coffee. Kinda goes down like road fuel, but--" and he gave a helpless little shrug.

"That's encouraging, Sammy," he offered with false cheer. "You should totally go into marketing. I bet ya Uncle Bobby knows people."

"Shut up, jerk."

"Bitch." Dean smiled as he rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom just long enough to soak the top of his head with water from the sink and scrub a hand over his face. He walked back into the room and scooped up their two duffles. "Let's move," he said. He sounded good to his own ears--he just needed to keep reminding himself not to think like he was running a con on his brother. That never ended well.

They were both on edge and desperate for the caffeine rush when they settled into the car and Dean started her up. He turned up his favorite Metallica mix tape to eleven but snapped the radio off as Lars launched into _Until It Sleeps_ , asking, _where do I take this pain of mine?_

"Could just switch the tape if you want," Sam offered quietly. "BOC?" Dean didn't manage more than a grunt and Sam didn't suggest it again.

They settled into a quiet that could easily be companionable--would be on any other day that they were given marching orders knowing full well that their father and his dissatisfaction were lurking nowhere in the distance. But time was moving too slowly. They didn't have an answer and the truth of that was settling inside of Dean right beside the exhaustion that had never let up, not really, since those first terrible moments under the curse. All that lay ahead of him was more time spent like this unless his genius brother could come up with something. Something told Dean the Pittsfield library was going to be a bust, and not even Sammy could Google his way around this one. 

They were quiet. He focused on the road and Sam fought sleep. There was nothing to say, no joke worth cracking.

They were a hundred miles into Pennsylvania when Sam turned his attention to him. "What's up?" he ventured. Dean knew he was aiming for casual but he could decode Sam-speak in his sleep. Sam's question was pointed and he likely already knew the answer he was prompting Dean for.

He spent a compulsory thirty seconds searching for something witty to reply with and then shrugged. "You tell me," he muttered. Sam raised his eyebrows, clearly aware of Dean's lapse in Winchester protocol. Out of the corner of his eye Dean saw him schooling his features to block the inevitable emo worry from plain sight.

"You're fidgety," Sam offered.

"Long car ride, Sammy," Dean deflected with some of his usual skill.

"For us?" Sam seemed to regret the words almost as soon as he said them, ending the question in an audible dot dot dot of uncertainty.

Dean pursed his lips and blew out a long breath. "Yeah, whatever."

"I just--if you need something, I mean--"

"I'm _fine_ , Sam, okay? Jesus!"

Sam lapsed into quiet again--his own patented Sam Winchester emo quiet of brooding doom.

Dean needed this like a hole in the head.

Ten miles further up I-81 Sam cleared his throat again and Dean forced himself to go still.

"Any chance you're gonna let this go?" Dean asked.

"Any chance you'd stop wanting me to?"

"Not really."

"Then I kind of think it's not a good idea to let it go," Sam said.

Dean leaned back in the seat of the Impala and blinked slowly. "Fuck. Okay," he said softly. "Fine." He angled for the shoulder and let himself sag in place as the engine wound down.

Sam blinked. "Okay?" he asked tentatively.

Dean closed his eyes and took in a breath. "I... It's this thing. I just... I kind of have to... take care of it. I have to... I can go places now, I mean... I can just be somewhere... away," he said tentatively, working to say all this without somehow sending Sammy into another worried sulk. "but I still... I still have to... counter it," he said with none of the usual joking good humor he could muster when discussing his skill in the art of sexual conquest.

Sam sighed. "I know. I mean--I figured."

"So I.... I guess...it's time," Dean continued. "I can hold off a while. But we gotta... I mean, it's better when I'm around you," he lowered his eyes. "But it gets kind of...bad...when I'm... if it's just... other people. So if I let it go too long... it's gonna... be worse."

"We could just... I could help, Dean, like..." He raised a gargantuan hand in a universal "hold on" gesture. "Not like that time, just... you could stay. I'll... You said it's better with me around anyway, right? I mean, we know that, so...."

"I don't know, Sam," Dean said tiredly.

"I could just hold onto you...or whatever. Maybe we could stay on the road and it'd keep you distracted."

"You doin' this for Dad?" Dean asked, his lips quirking momentarily. "Keeping track of our ETA?"

"No," Sam said, all soft and earnest.

Yeah. Dean walked right into that one. And what the hell was _that_ about? But okay. Okay.

"Okay," he said, letting out a long breath. The decision was made, and all the fight just went out of him in a rush. Because Sam was right. He'd always been able to help before, and, God dammit, Dean couldn't say no to that. He should have--somehow he knew that, but he couldn't. He was weak. This whole thing had just made him so--

"Hey. Hey. I gotcha, Dean," Sam said, and he patted Dean's knee, then closed his fingers solidly around his brother's thigh. "We can keep moving or stop for the--"

He shook his head. He'd already overslept that morning and Dad would kill him if he disobeyed an order (straight shot, Dean), and he just would not think about how utterly fucked all this was. Standard procedure was still in play: obey Dad. They still had that much, he had that much. So he shook his head and fought a sudden wave of dizziness, reaching for the keys. He was sure he tossed them quite manfully to his string bean, Sasquatch brother, (because that's what he would do if he ever handed the keys over--which he'd never done, ever, fuck), except for the distant feeling of Sam's fingers against his palm and the way his hand was just suddenly empty. 

"Gotcha. It'll be better in one minute. One--minute. Promise you." He felt himself shifting (Sam was pulling him, lifting him) across the bench seat and then he was tilting crazily to the side until Sam settled into the driver's side and braced Dean up against him. He pulled Dean closer against his side. Then he rummaged briefly under the driver's seat for the box of Dean's tapes and pulled out AC/DC Back in Black and turned it on low, like a lullaby. And this, Dean decided, was one of the most fucked up days of his life, but right then, with the pain ebbing away in waves and Sam warm against him, he didn't care.

The Impala was parked at the end of a long driveway when Dean woke again. Sam leaned over him through the open driver's side door, one big hand jostling Dean's shoulder.

Dean stretched and checked his watch, offering a tired grin to his brother. "Speed limit the whole way, huh, Sammy?"

"You really wanna make fun of me for taking care of your car, Dean?"

"Dude, I'm your brother."

Sam offered a small smile back. "Yeah," he allowed. "Look--I'll get the stuff out of the back but I think... you better be the one to call Dad."

"Ain't that always the way," Dean said and cuffed him lightly on the back of the head before pulling the cell out of the glove box.

"Dean. You made it," Dad answered on the second ring. "What'd you do, go the speed limit?"

"Yeah, well," Dean began as he followed Sam up to the house, "Sam ate some veggie wrap thing and was puking every twenty miles from Pennsylvania on." 

Sam spun in place, rolling his eyes and cuffed Dean right back as Dean reached the top of the porch. Dean put his hand over the phone and growled, "Dude!" If he reached for the banister it was only because the bags were heavy. He'd just slept for the past five hours next to his giant, heated brother. He was fine.

Sam grabbed him by the shoulder and held him steady, eyes apologetic. "Well, don't..." he mouthed back, and it was Dean's turn to roll his eyes.

"Dean?" 

"Yeah, sorry, Dad." He mouthed "bite me" back at Sam as he brought the cell phone back to his ear, "we're bringing the stuff up--where's the key to this place anyway?"

"Caleb said it'd be in the flower pot." Dad didn't bother to keep distaste out of his tone.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Civilians." Sam went still.

"Yeah, civilians. Haunted right out of house and home."

"Do I wanna know? I mean, Caleb took care of this, right?" Dean asked.

"'Course he did. Supposedly the wife was a nurse in Pediatrics and some kid's ghost followed her back to the house. They haven't been back in a year, totally spooked. First thing they want you to do now that you're here is lay a fence."

"Wrought iron."

"You got it. Stuff should be on order at the local hardware place under the name Finney."

"Got the key. Talk to you later, Dad," Dean offered an easy end to the conversation, and their father clicked off the line.

That Friday, they drove to Downtown Hardware and carried the bags of concrete set aside "for Brian Finney's boys" out to the Impala. They got everything back to the house, bags and two tilted wheelbarrows spread out across the driveway, in two trips. When it was over, Dean was sore and irritable. The daily war with the curse left him with less energy reserves than he was used to having. 

They stood in the late afternoon sunlight surveying the pile of bags. He leaned so that most of his weight was taken by the Impala's frame. He was pretty sure that Sam couldn't tell.

"Maybe I should've banged two of 'em last night," Dean muttered.

"Jesus, Dean." Sam reddened, his attention seemingly properly deflected.

"Just sayin', man. I might as well accept that it's the truth, right?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Glad you're having fun, then."

"Oh, sure." Dean rolled his eyes right back (with much more class, thank you). "Absolutely, Sammy. Anyway," he pulled the driver's side door open, "I better get on taking care of that or I'm not gonna be worth anything helping you tomorrow."

He slid back into the driver's seat and left Sam standing there, staring after the Impala with his mouth half open.

Score one for Dean.

The next morning he woke Sam at seven. "Up and at 'em, kiddo," he crowed, making as much noise as he could as he tromped around Sam's room already dressed and in his steel-toed boots.

"Hey, Dean," Sam answered irritably, "Saturday? Ever heard of it?"

"Yeah, and I got 'til about four-thirty before I start feelin' like I've been steam-rolled, so if you want my help out there we're on _my_ schedule today."

"Like we're ever not," Sam muttered into his pillow.

"What was that, princess?"

"Nothing. Just because it's always whatever Dad's--"

"Oh, keep talking, Sammy, this is _my favorite_."

"Gimme five minutes."

"I got donuts," Dean offered.

"Dude, I liked you better when you slept like a normal person."

"You're too good for my donuts now? 'Cause that's fine--more for me. I just figured--"

"No, I just... You're weird when you're perky," Sam said.

"Oh, don't worry. It won't last."

Sam sighed. "Yeah. Okay. Five minutes."

"Take ten."

Sam took fifteen and Dean made sure to leave him his half of the dozen donuts. 

Hauling wheelbarrows of concrete was one of the _stupidest_ things Dad had ever asked Dean to do. It was right up there with "manage this pansy-assed civilian's property for a year." They hadn't even been in the downstairs apartment a week and Dean had already changed _at least_ ten light bulbs for Edith Howard on the third floor. Edith was probably around 4'3 and wore fuschia slippers that swished as she hobbled across her floor. It took Edith so long to answer the door when Dean knocked, he wanted to offer her the downstairs rooms on principle. He tried not to think about her mounting the stairs all the way up to the top of the house. Truth was, she didn't seem to go out much.

So, okay. There were definitely worse things than Edith needing her light bulbs changed, or hauling concrete. They were just so--goddamn-- _boring_.

It turned out that Sam did most of the running up and down the driveway with the wheelbarrow while Dean stayed near the end surrounded by buckets of water. By the end of the day, he looked like some kind of half-man half-rock creature but the concrete was setting around the iron fence-posts as the sun set. He went inside for long enough to shower and get the last of the dust off of his skin before he set off for the bar. With Sam out of school, they could keep working through the week and get the fence up sooner, but Dean couldn't overlook the curse or he couldn't pull his weight.

The next morning they pulled together a makeshift rack for the hood of the Impala. Sam hadn't even tried to argue for fitting the fence sections in the back of the car and Dean was grateful for that as they hammered the wood together.

That afternoon they headed out to the siding and fencing outlet where Brian Finney had pre-ordered the wrought iron from. When Dean headed out again as the sun set, Sam didn't protest that either. Dean probably should have been grateful for that, too.

By noon Wednesday they had laid the fence around the entire house. Dean closed the gate from the inside and reached over the top to close the latch. He gave the top of the gate a good thunk with one hand.

"Good job, Sammy."

"Yeah, looks good," Sam admitted.

"Think we'll be okay here this year."

Sam studied him for a moment before asking, "Yeah? You won't go stir-crazy?"

"Maybe, but," Dean shrugged. "Least I'll know it's safe."

Sam seemed to consider this for a while longer, his expression darkening. Great. "I guess," he finally said.

"I don't know anything can get past wrought iron," Dean said, pointing out the obvious.

"Except what's already got you," Sam countered, glaring like he was trying to melt the fence.

Dean's mouth went dry. 

"I'm gonna head to the library," Sam said forcefully, "Unless you need--"

"No, no, I'm good. You can even have first shower. I know how those librarians love your scrawny ass, but you're gonna need it."

Some things hadn't changed. Dean easily ducked away from the swat Sam aimed at his head as they both headed into the house.

After that, Sam spent most of his days holed up in the library. Dean's new case of the shiny made hustling pretty much impossible, so he had taken a job down at the hardware store, which was about as easy as walking in on a Friday afternoon and saying he could start Monday if he could work morning shifts. The owner grinned at him like it was Christmas morning and Dean tried to tell himself to take what he could out of this whole mess.

The hardware store wasn't bad. Anderson wanted to put Dean behind the register as much as possible, but it wasn't hard to ask to be put in the back or on restocking duty most of the time. Anderson liked what Dean did for business and mostly Dean just tried not to think about why that was.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks of Sam in the stacks, until summer faded and fall came early. In September, Dean could blame the lack of progress on Sam's classes starting up, and he willed himself not to think about the dark streaks under Sam's eyes, his brother falling asleep in front of the laptop surrounded by notepaper and post-its with words like "compulsion curse" on them.

At least Sam had stopped trying to wait up watching for Dean, braced for some kind of disaster. Most nights he actually pulled a half-awake Sam away from the pile of research and settled him in his bed. That felt good. That felt normal.

Dean was handling it. He was getting used to the stupid job, even if it turned out that discussing the merit of screws was even more dull than laying concrete. It was steady. Go to work. Go to the bar. Go to work. Dean could deal with steady.

Dean pulled up to the house and gritted his teeth, hands tight on the wheel. Martin the Mutterer from the second floor was on the stoop, leaning out over the stairs like he was trying to pull Dean home with his eyes. _Here we go._

"I could do _all_ of this," Martin started in as soon as Dean had opened the driver's side door. "I just don't know why Brian thinks he needs you two!"

"I dunno, Martin," Dean said low. He'd learned in the first week of managing the place that it didn't matter for two seconds what he actually said, but if he didn't respond at all Martin tended to turn into a screamer.

"I'll tell you why, he don't want to give an honest man a discount or nothin' on his rent! Brian Finney is a fuckin' cheap-ass bastard," Martin railed. "I could do _all_ this."

Dean sighed. "I'll let you plunge Edith's toilet next time," he said.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"I just don't know why!" Dean stepped inside the building and shut the outer door, cutting Martin off.

Inside their own apartment, Sam was hunched over the computer again.

"You hungry?" Dean asked.

"You don't have to cook anything for me, Dean."

"Well have you been eating or d'you just subsist on paper these days?" Dean growled.

"Uh. What the fuck, Dean?"

"You aren't even, are you?"

"I'm fine."

"Yeah. Well. Tonight when you fuckin' faceplant on that thing, you can lay there in a puddle of your own fucking drool."

"...Okay," Sam said. He slammed the computer closed but Dean just went down the hall to the bathroom and started the shower. He needed to get the smell of metal off his hands. Dean imagined it was chupacabra blood but that and two dollars would get him a cup of fucking coffee.

Jesus, he hadn't even played pool since July.

He flung a fresh bar of soap into the shower and stepped in after it.

Monday night, Sam blocked his path as he reached the door, spindly arms in place across the frame. Dean rolled his eyes.

"The fuck's this, Sam?"

"Dean, listen. You're unraveling, man. You shouldn't go," Sam said.

"Uh. Don't really think that's your call, Sammy."

"Bullshit. I know you don't want to do this."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"That's really amazing, Sam. I always knew you were a genius, but now you're a mind-reader? Awesome."

"Be serious for two seconds, Dean."

"Nothing to be serious about. Nothing to talk about. I gotta go."

"No, you don't."

"Yes. You know I can't--If I don't--"

"And it doesn't really work, does it, Dean? Not like the first night, with--"

"That. Is not happening. Get it through your head."

"Dean, I could-- It could be like before, if you--"

"No, Sam!"

"So I just have to watch this?"

"I guess you do."

"Dean-- I _can't_ \--"

"Yeah, well, I'm not about to--to-- I'm just not. I can't do that, Sam. I-- You know this. So don't ask me. Don't ask me," Dean said, the words thick in his throat. 

Sam sighed. "This is so fucked."

"Yeah, well, get used to it. I am."

"Yeah. That's totally what you are. Used to it."

"Fuck you, Sam."

"We've already been over that. Nice, though, thanks."

Dean opened his mouth and closed it again with a snap before pushing past Sam hard enough to flatten him into the door-frame and stepping past.

But that night, everything Sam said chased Dean into his dreams.

Dean's sleep shifted. Suddenly there was Sam, his face hard and fierce, moving like he owned the room. One moment he moved, snakelike and certain, and Dean looked away so that Sam only danced in the corners of his vision. Then Sam was in his space, leaning close, the air oppressive around Dean as Sam filled everything.

This was wrong. This wasn't--this hadn't ever happened with Sam--

"Hi, Dean," Sam said, his voice thick with confidence, like he knew exactly the power he held over Dean in this moment. He shifted closer, impossibly close. "You're going to give me what I want." He thrust his hips, pressing hard into Dean. "Just what I want."

"Sammy," Dean groaned, trying to pull away, "This isn't you. Don't... I... please." The air here was so heavy and thick and Dean was so tired. Dean fought to get away but it was near impossible to fight Sam. "Please, don't. I don't--"

Sam laughed, a laugh that didn't belong in him, cut into Dean like ice, like a cold steel blade. "You think this is about what you want?"

Dean groaned. "Sam."

"When is it ever about what you want, Dean? What makes--" Sam thrust against him again, "you--" and again "think--that--has--anything to do--with it," Sam asked, his voice so full of want now that it made Dean's head spin.

"This isn't you," Dean almost begged.

"Oh, but it is, _bro_ , I can promise you that."

Dean screamed, he screamed until he felt the pain of it, saw the not-Sam spinning away and the colors fading out of everything--

\--and woke gasping, alone in the darkness of the apartment. He knew that he was alone. He'd gotten away from Sam. He'd pulled himself out of the dream and away from--the not-Sam. And he was safe.

Dean craned his neck and searched for a sign of his brother. He checked his watch. No, he would be in class now. Okay. Okay. He could breathe.

He brushed sleep-sweat from his forehead and shivered. This was so stupid. He was checking for Sam like he was some kind of boogeyman living in Dean's closet. This was--

Dread rushed through him again as a piece of the dream replayed in front of his mind's eye. Jesus. Sam.

But it wasn't Sam. He knew that. Just a dream. Sam was busy being a geek--an oblivious, emo teenager having fantasies about quadratic equations or something. Just being Dean's totally weird little brother.

He knew this. Things had never been--like that--with Sam. He forced himself to recount the first days of the curse--Sam's huge, gentle hands, his soft assurances that Dean would get whatever he needed.

Sam wasn't like the strangers, and he definitely wasn't some creepy, pushy dick.

The memory of that first night ran through his mind again. Sam's hands so tentative against his skin, murmuring his name.

That was his Sam. The real deal.

But it had been so long now, Dean almost didn't know where his life had ended and the curse had begun. He had been sick, so incredibly sick, and his brother had just--thought (known) to-- He hadn't been able to stop touching Dean.

Fuller had said the curse was tied to Sam. But that didn't mean that Sam had to be immune.

And they still had ridiculously few leads on where it had come from. Maybe Sam had skimped on research. He knew Dean wouldn't have double-checked him.

Maybe his little brother wasn't as interested in helping Dean as he'd thought. Things were getting worse. He'd never been afraid of Sam before; he'd never dreamed of Sam that way before. It was getting worse.

He was lost briefly in sense memory again--Sam's hands claiming him, dick pressed hard against him. Moving for all the world as if he owned Dean.

He thought of the long nights pressed close to his brother under the covers--necessity when he just couldn't face other prospects. That was getting worse, too.

Something like this could give anyone ideas.

What if the truth was Sam had a bomb inside of him with the curse's name on it, and one day he just wasn't going to be able to be Dean's sensitive, helpful little brother anymore? Sam was human. Nothing more.

He felt reality crashing down around him as the moments ticked by. 

No one else he'd met since the first night in Virginia had been able to ignore his curse.

It was only a matter of time.

He threw back the covers and pulled on a pair of jeans and his Led Zeppelin t-shirt, discarded on the floor last night in his usual tired haze.

He headed straight for the Impala and peeled out into the road at a speed that left his baby shaking. With his heart pumping in his ears, he headed for the highway, and he did not look back.

He drove aimlessly along the streets of Pittsfield, mostly deserted with lunch hour come and gone. He slept so much these days. He saw a road sign out of the corner of his eye and turned east and then made a turn he figured had him close to heading north. He briefly registered an arrow pointing away from the center of Pittsfield and he followed it.

The miles sped by under him. He didn't stop. He just took turn after turn along the back roads, headed north in a blur of fear. He focused on the white lines on the road in front of him and kept moving.

With three hours between him and the last sign of Pittsfield, Dean started to feel the sickening pull of the curse under his skin. He took a sudden right and slowed down a bit, willing a larger intersection to come into view. Judging from the size of the towns he'd been flying through today, he shouldn't be far from a pharmacy or something. He moved by instinct and pulled into a badly-paved, tilted lot in front of what the loccals called a package store window with cases of Coors and Budweiser in the window.

He pulled his jacket collar up around his ears, hoping to broadcast a universal _back off_ , and headed out across the lot. 

Once inside, he had a fifth of whiskey in his hand in record time, moving briskly through the store and then quickly ducked into the nearby Brooks pharmacy, where he caught sight of a display for Tylenol and he made a bee-line for some generic Arthritis Pain Relief in the biggest bottle he could find. _My kingdom for the first aid kit_ he thought, wistful for the coveted bottle of oxycontin filched the last time the three of them had made it near a hospital in something resembling one piece.

 _Oh, well._ It wasn't like he was going to run out of the stuff. He'd get whatever pain relief he could from it as long as it it meant he could keep driving.

Dean kept his eyes on the counter in front of him as the woman at the register rung up his item. He threw down a ten and was already moving for the door as she called, "have a nice day."

Success. He'd made it in and out with only the barest response from the curse. Minutes later, he was back in the car, ripping into the clear plastic covering the cap on the pain reliever with his teeth. It fell away with an audible crinkle and he snapped the cap off with a hard yank, chugging from the bottle. He opened the bottle of acetaminophen when a quarter of the cough medicine had found its way down into his gut and chased eight of the pills with another slug from the bottle. Then he tossed both bottles into the back seat of the Impala to avoid tempting himself with the idea of taking any more of either medication. That wouldn't do him any good unless he was aiming to get suddenly and irrevocably dead. 

He welcomed the fuzzy feeling in his head brought on by the whiskey as he headed back out of the parking lot and turned vaguely north again on the next residential street. If he was careful doling out the meds, he wouldn't have to see another person tonight--not Sammy, and not some stranger in a bar.

Screw people, he thought a little drowsily, he didn't need them. He had his baby and they were fine--just fine.

Night had come and fallen hard when Dean finally stopped the car. Miles back his high-beams had briefly caught a mile marker and a sign declaring that he had found himself in Island Pond, Vermont. All around him, the air was quiet and dark with the feeling of remoteness. He opened the door of the Impala and the squeak of the hinge echoed in the darkness.

He thought briefly of spilling out of the car onto the grass but held tight to the door-frame as he regarded the light snow-cover all around the car. He only had his leather jacket and a dim awareness that numbing his mind with any more of the cough syrup would probably make him too foggy to drive home--

Shit. Home. Sam. He hadn't left a note or called Sam to let him know where he was. He had just been hell-bent on getting out of there. He reached across the seat and popped the glove box to pull out the cell phone when an icy dread went through him and he pulled his hand back.

Sam was so _not_ who Dean wanted to be talking to right now.

A gust of wind cut across him and left him shivering. Great. Okay. Here he was, sitting in the dark in the middle of nowhere in winter in Vermont, half-afraid to make a phone call; a call to his little brother, who he was supposed to be watching out for.

When the hell had things gotten so screwed up?

Dean slammed the door and reached toward the glove box again, but pulled away again with a sigh. He didn't have a way to explain this to Sam, even if he wanted to. He had no good reason to be out here, and Sam would know that just as well as Dean did.

The only thing Dean could do was turn around and get himself the hell back to Pittsfield. He grit his teeth and started the car again, making his way south along the darkened roads back to Massachusetts.

Nearly six hours later, Dean rolled the Impala into the driveway and cut the engine. He thought briefly of the short walk up to the house and inside. And Sam. He thought of Sam, and the panic of the dream flooded back through him.

He couldn't go in there. Not if Sam was in there. In that moment, he knew with perfect clarity that that was the truth. Without another thought, he opened the drivers-side door and slid into the back seat before closing and locking himself back inside.

*~*~*

Sam woke with a jerk, with his mouth sour and the page of his Calculus book damp. Fuck.

Dean still wasn't anywhere. Sam always knew the feel of the apartment when he was alone. He used to relish it. Now he spent all his time alone thick in useless research. He'd stopped tutoring Bio when Dean had hit six months like this, and they had less money, less food, but Sam needed to--he just needed to fix this. There wasn't anything else to do.

The room was dark. Dark enough that Sam knew Dean should be back by now. He never lingered once he'd done what needed to be done to stop the curse for another night.

Sam checked his watch. Dean definitely should have been here by now. This was Pittsfield. There wasn't any reason to be out in Pittsfield past one even if Dean had the urge.

 _Dean_. 

Panic.

Sam flew out the front door, barely grabbing his keys on the way out. There was snow falling now, diagonal with the wind, a frigid watery mess hitting him as he sprinted out the door and down the stoop--

\--and found the Impala in the first spot in the cramped driveway.

 _DEAN!_ Where--?

Sam flew to the car, using one ungloved hand to wipe a clear spot into the passenger-side window and peered in, desperate for a clue. He caught sight of one jean-clad leg, bent and hanging out into the foot-well of the back seat, out of the corner of his eye.

His heart rose in his throat as he strafed to the side in the thickening snow-cover to get a full look--at his brother.

(asleep, asleep, he's fine, he's asleep, he's fine, fine, dean)

Sam tried the door and moved on autopilot as he dug for his wallet and the spare key. He reached around back and tapped Dean's knee in firm rapid-fire. "Hey. Dean."

Dean groaned and turned toward him, eyes narrow with irritation. "Wha?" His eyes focused and he drew back from Sam's hand.

"Dean, man," Sam fell into his usual spot and closed the door to keep out the worst of the cold. He almost laughed with relief crashing into him, "I thought-- What are you doing? It's freezing. If you're...drunk or--lemme help you in--"

Dean's eyes were dark, his face tight and almost angry, but that didn't-- "I'm fine, Sam," he said, deadly level. Considered.

"What? You--" Sam gestured helplessly, long arms out from his sides in a physical _what the fuck?_

"Sam, look, you can't--what you want--it's not help, okay? You can't help me. And I can't-- I just can't, Sam, so just-- I'm fine."

"Dean, _what_? That doesn't even begin to make sense. You're _not_ fine. What are you trying to--"

"Sam, I just can't do this anymore and it doesn't help and if-- if there's nothing else I don't care, I just can't do it, Sam. So I need-- I just need to be here. By myself. That's all."

"Dean--"

Dean got out of the car without a word and opened the trunk. A soft white dusting was already standing out against his leather jacket when he came back, the wetness making him shine.

He tossed an old, worn jacket Sam's way--one with the right elbow ripped out of one sleeve by a lunge from a harpy, and blood coating the bottom fringe. He gave a half-nod when Sam caught it reflexively, a mirror image of the barest acknowledgment given by their father at an order successfully followed. "There. Go inside, Sam."

"Dean, you can't-- Just let me--"

"Get out of _my car_ , Sam."

Sam blinked, not able to meet his brother's eyes as he pulled the jacket on automatically (his brother gave it to him, Dean gave it to him to stay warm, Dean.) before he threw himself from the Impala and almost to his knees in the snow. At the last second he gained his footing and stood upright. The driver's door of the Impala slammed shut and he felt Dean's gaze cutting into him, pushing him the rest of the way back into the house.

The inner door of the apartment stood half open, the edges swollen by the weather and never fitting right since the first frost, as Sam sank to the floor and spit a yellow stream of sickness onto the pitted hardwood floor.

After that, Sam tried not to be home much at all. He came home long after dark, after Dean. If Dean was already home, Sam didn't really have to think about what his brother had been out doing. He never wanted Dean to sleep in the (fucking god, Dean) goddamn car again, not because of _him_. So he made sure to just slip into the apartment after he knew Dean had to be resting up after his bar run.

Sam might as well have not even lived there, and Dean didn't exactly try to leave the light on.

Sam pulled the application to Stanford out of the pile in Guidance. He just planned to do the one, for the school that was as fucking far as he could get from this cold, dark place where Dean had started to hate him.

Nothing about doing the application felt real even when Sam had the acceptance letter in his hand. Then came the financial aid bullshit and finally the scholarship application, informing Sam that he was required to come to campus to compete and schmooze. When the time came, Sam had his ticket to fly. He left a bullshit note for Dean (he wouldn't read it) about a huge AP Bio II project and sleeping over at his partner's and Sam boarded the red eye for San Francisco and the scholarship competition.

When he got home from the airport the next day courtesy of another red eye, Sam took a detour to the local Irish pub and bought Dean the biggest cheeseburger he could order with fries and onion rings. He slid it into the microwave before Dean was home from the hardware store and took off again.

On a stupidly hot day in August when Sam couldn't stand Dean not knowing anymore, he stapled copies of the acceptance letter to the copy of his statement of intent (check here, sign here, return by April 5, 2001 to reserve your spot in the class of 2005) and left it tucked against the steering wheel of the Impala with a green post-it on the front: "Have $$ for the bus." He'd scratched furiously through the words "House is," completely unable to finish the sentence.

He didn't expect for there to be any more argument.


	5. Part IV.

Sam didn't say goodbye and he didn't leave a note. Dean knew where he'd be going. He'd had the trip planned for months, bought his tickets while Dean was busy fixing Martin the Mutterer's garbage disposal and Sam was supposed to be at the library. Even now, skipping days when he could be researching left his gut churning with worry. Didn't matter that all he did was sit there in the stacks staring at the books that weren't any help. Sam hadn't been able to help Dean, not for months, and his brother-- His brother wanted him gone.

That didn't really surprise Sam, not now that he'd thought about it. He wasn't doing any good here. He wasn't any use. It was better if he wasn't here serving as a constant reminder to Dean of what had happened, how it was tied to Sam even all these months later. He hadn't done anything for Dean except scare the hell out of him.

There wasn't anything left to do but leave. 

He took his one green army duffle and just--went, headed for the Greyhound station on Columbus and hunkered down into a bus seat.

Three solid days on a bus turned out to be considerably more miserable than three days in the Impala. Sam kept his eyes to himself but pretty much everyone who had the good fortune to sit beside him had some way of letting him know that he was too goddamn big, too spindly, too in the way.

And it rankled. Sam blocked out the screaming children and the snoring, the bum two rows back who was coughing a lung out onto the people one row back, but he couldn't block out Dean. Dean who didn't want him, whose voice underscored every sidelong glance from the girl who snapped her gum non-stop all the way from Pittsfield to Boston or the angry guy with matted grey hair in Connecticut.

No one wants you. I was the only one and you fucked it up. Good job, Sammy.

Sam threw his duffle behind his head and used it as a pillow, sinking down into the rhythm of Dean's litany.

After Connecticut, Sam slept for most of the time between his five transfers. He felt weak and, God, he was tired. Every time he woke he was a little more frayed and a lot more sore but it didn't matter. The distance growing between Sam and Dean now had to be a good thing. It had to mean some kind of relief for his brother.

*~*~*

The first thing Sam knew about Stanford was how very far it was from Dean. The second thing he knew was that he hated it.

It'd been a long time since Sam had energy to hate a place he lived. But anywhere he was living, Dean was too--and now--

Now Sam lived behind a door with a sign in garish orange and green with comically thick architect script: SAM W., LUIS J. It was totally stupid, too, because his roommate didn't go by Luis, which confused the hell out of Sam when he'd tried to get the guy's attention the second day they were there. He told Sam it was his grandfather's name and he hated it. He'd always been Christopher, even to his mother, until in the third grade he decided that Topher sounded super cool and stopped answering to any name involving Chris for about three weeks. It'd stuck, and Sam was pretty sure Topher James was still feeling the burn. Sam was pretty sure he knew what it felt like.

Topher had posters of comic zombie art over his bed.

Topher's favorite movie (his favorite movie ever) was Romero's Dawn of the Dead. Sam fantasized about applying bleach to his brain after learning that particular fact, but it wouldn't exactly help him keep the scholarship money, so he didn't.

Topher was convinced that Sam had no taste. Sam really didn't care what Topher thought, except for the way he idolized the walking dead exactly like they weren't real.

At least Dean had more sense than that.

What's more, Sam's opinion seemed to offend his roommate's walking-corpse-loving sensibilities. Which was pretty great. Awesome, really.

"All I'm saying is, it's a classic!" Topher asserted before he downed another swig of vodka. "Come on!"

"I really.... It can totally be your favorite thing in the universe without it being mine, man."

"Don't tell me--what--you think Night of the Living Dead's better or something?"

Jesus Christ.

"They're coming for you, Winchester!" Topher crowed.

He sighed and swirled a limp cafeteria fry in his ketchup, making sure to cover as much of it as he could before he dared eat it. How was it the food here was worse than twenty five million diners all over the goddamn continental US? He couldn't even get a burger here that Dean would find passable, a fact that got Sam in the gut every time.

"When there's no more room in hell, the dead shall walk the earth," Topher intoned, and Sam did not hit him. But he probably would next time.

*~*~*

For weeks, Sam phoned it in, walking around Palo Alto in a haze. He'd wanted this for years--this safety, normalcy. Ever since he'd known that with a lot of elbow grease and a little finesse he could walk away from the hunting life, that was what he'd wanted to do.

He hadn't expected his family to want him gone so completely, leaving him gutted, walking around like he was missing a limb. He thought of Dean, still trying to eke out some kind of existence, still as miserable as ever (but safe now, maybe), still no closer to any answers, and Sam felt the bottom drop out of his stomach again.

The truth was, Sam didn't know how to do this, how to be here. Anyone would have been able to see it all over his face. He didn't know if he cared either. 

This wasn't the way that it was supposed to be. Dean didn't want Sam to--he didn't want Sam's help, and he wouldn't want Sam to fuck up school, no matter how many times he tried to play up what a "geekboy" his brother was. The truth was, Dean had almost never uttered the nickname without a note of pride in his voice, even when he tried hard to hide it.

Sam tried to hold onto that. He held onto every time he'd heard Dean trying to explain to their father how important school was to Sam. Now that Sam was here, he had to do well. He had an amazing scholarship, totally once in a lifetime. So he had to get it together. He didn't have a choice.

He had to figure out a way to stop feeling like he was waking up in the wrong place every morning in his too-small bed with dread already thick in his throat. He had to stop scrolling through the numbers on his cell phone to Dean's name, finger hovering over the little green send button. 

Dean hadn't wanted to talk to him in months even before Sam left. He wasn't about to start now just because his little brother was having doubts about his oh-so-normal life.

There was something to be said for the fact that Sam's roommate always had a steady supply of alcohol. On a Friday night in October, when Topher produced a fresh bottle of vodka and swished it in front of Sam's face, Sam was absolutely ready to take a drink.

"All right! Winchester's gonna live a little!" Topher went knocking on all the doors up and down their floor and then sent Zach upstairs to get Becky and as many of her friends as he could convince to come down. The girls liked Zach.

Before Zach had finished up rounding up the masses, Jess Moore emerged from upstairs carrying grocery bags holding a gallon of cranberry juice and a two half-gallons of OJ and made sure it was known she was in charge right away.

"Topher, I remember how you were last weekend. That was my doorway you lost your liquor in front of, so you are going to cut that," she indicated the vodka, "with one of these, or else I am taking it away from you before you hurt yourself."

Sam felt himself grinning, breathing a little easier. "Here. I'm doing one too," he said, gesturing for the bottle, and filled first one, then a second red plastic cup with vodka and orange juice.

Topher made a face, but his dark eyes were full of glee when he saw Sam knock his drink back.

Sam was not really a hard liquor kind of guy. Give him about three beers and he could pretty much handle it, but doing shots for the hell of it was something Dean would do. Until now, Sam guessed. He was nursing his third drink when Jess turned to him, grinned and said, "So. What's your major?"

Sam put his cup down on the carpet and looked at her seriously. "Pre-law."

"Oh yeah? So are you gonna go ahead and use that to save the whales or...?" She studied him closely for a moment. "Nah." She snapped her fingers. "Tax. Real Estate? Tax."

Sam felt a blush creeping onto his cheeks.

"You're gonna be bored as hell, you know. If law school doesn't eat you alive."

Sam stiffened.

"Please," she said. "I can see what kind of person you are." She reached out and patted Becky's knee. "Beck, did you know Sam wants to do law?"

Becky squinted at Sam. "Didn't know that."

"Yeah. So, Sam... You think you're as hard-assed as that? Really?"

"You don't really know--" Sam began.

Jess smiled, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks warm and lightly flushed. "I know what I see right now."

Sam's stomach lurched. He shrugged and kept his eyes on her face. "So what d'you think's better, then?"

"Something that makes you use your brain without making you cross-eyed with boredom?" she offered.

"Why? What's your major?"

"Psychology."

"You're not in it for the whales either, then."

"Mmm." She shrugged. "Not animals," she offered. "People, though."

"Yeah? Me too."

Jess snorted. "You mean people's money. I mean, literally. So you didn't really think this through."

Sam looked at her and wondered how the hell he managed to con his way through the scholarship schmooze-fest, and then he thought of the Impala rolling up to a random survivor's home, blue siding and a pink bike in the yard, thought of himself and Dean flashing badges--

Dean.

He felt something shift inside of him and he lowered his eyes to study the tiny rivets in the carpet.

"Hey, I'm just fucking with you, Sam. You're here, right? So you must know how to go for what you want."

Sam didn't look up right away, but he felt a shy smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah. Maybe. Well, so, why psychology?" he asked. "Why people?"

Jessica watched him close for a long moment and then offered, "Kind of a family thing, I guess."

"Mm. Yeah," Sam said.

Becky went quiet beside her and Jess slapped her knees and stood in one fluid motion. "C'mon, Winchester, I'll get you a water from the machine upstairs."

Sam rose, kind of muzzy-headed, stood beside her. She picked up his empty cup and bagged it, and then they headed down the hall and into the stairwell, Jess easily matching his stride as they went. Wow. Okay.

She's got legs! he heard Dean's commentary, complete with intentionally-atrocious English accent, in his head. His sudden smile was loose and goofy on his lips but his eyes stung.

Jess did get him the water--paid for it and all--and they headed for her room.

Her hall was quiet, except for the muted strains of Britney Spears and sporadic typing coming from a room on the far end.

Jess invited him into her room and he followed her. Becky was downstairs, so they'd have some actual privacy and Sam couldn't see a single zombie decorating anything so this felt like a perfectly reasonable decision.

She sat on her bed and Sam considered for all of half a second before sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"That really doesn't look comfortable."

Sam felt himself smiling slightly and shrugged. "Not my room."

Jessica raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Right." She leaned forward a little. "So."

"So."

They settled into a comfortable silence for a few seconds before Jess shook her head a little. "Nothing else to say, huh? Not curious about anything all of a sudden?"

"What's your--I mean--" Sam shook his head a little. "Nevermind. Not my business."

"What? No way! If you've got one, you have to ask it! I mean, Becky's not even here. C'mon."

"You said... you said you were here because of your family and I--"

"Oh. Yeah. My dad."

Sam blinked. "Seriously? Your dad made you come here?" Okay, sure, family was family, but Sam couldn't picture Jess taking orders from anyone.

Jess shook her head. "He didn't make me. He... died when I was ten. He was sick for a long time before then," she said. "This was his alma mater. And..." she shrugged, "I guess I just wanna help other people, you know, deal. With that kind of stuff."

"Jesus. I'm sorry, Jessica."

She shook her head. "My mom calls me Jessica," she said, wrinkling her nose. "If you wanna come back in here you'll have to go with Jess."

Sam grinned stupidly up at her. Jesus, she just told him her dad was dead and all he could come up with was a grin. "I can do that."

"You're really drunk. Good thing you're also cute."

"Yeah. I...usually just do one beer. Maybe two."

"For something to do with your hands?" she asked and smiled at him.

"More or less. I dunno. Maybe it was just that Dean liked the hard liquor. I mean, more than me."

Jess studied him and Sam watched her until more shook loose inside his head.

"That's my brother. Dean." Somewhere in the back of his mind Sam knew he should stop now, right now, but he wasn't drinking the water fast enough and he really hated being so goddamn drunk and-- "He's older. Um... He's probably the reason I'm here, too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I...um. He always got the school thing even when my dad didn't and... I guess I just felt like he wanted me to--"

"Sam--is he... gone?"

"What? No." Fuck. FUCK. "Um... he... He's just sick."

"Oh," Jess whispered.

"And he didn't--he didn't want me to--" Sam swallowed. "To be around anymore. For...that."

Jess' eyes were dark and serious as she watched him then.

"Sorry," Sam said.

"It's okay," Jess whispered. "It really is, Sam."

"I mean, it's fine, he... He just wants me to do--to be okay. I know that."

Jess bit her lip, stood, and squatted in front of Sam, one hand going to his shoulder. "Maybe it won't always be like this. He probably just needs some time-- He must be scared."

Sam nodded, and she leaned in closer. 

"You must be scared."

Sam nodded again and a strangled noise escaped his throat.

"Hey. Okay." Jess dropped to a sitting position in front of him and put her arms around him. "It's okay."

"There wasn't anything I could do anymore."

"No," she murmured. "I know."

Everything flooded to the surface in a rush and Sam broke open. He felt Jess pulling him close, let him soak her babydoll t-shirt and shiver in her arms and she held him tight.

They stayed like that for a long time, until Becky and a bunch of their hallmates came back upstairs, giggling and belting RENT at the top of their lungs and Jess' door swung open into Sam's side, hard. Becky kept pushing and Sam slid forward an inch or so before Jess called, "Beck, wait, willya. That's a human you're plowing into!"

"What? That doesn't make any sense, Jess, what are you doing on the flo--" Becky pushed on the door again and Sam scrambled up, allowing enough give for her to look around the frame and see him. "Oh. Oh." She giggled and stepped back, crowing, "I knew you liked him!"

"Jesus, Rebecca! Five minutes! Get some--" She shot Sam a questioning look and gestured toward his water and he nodded. She pelted it out into the hall. "Drink it, don't come back til you've finished!"

"Whatever, girl." Rebecca sped down the hall to the room with the Britney playing in it. "Hey, Caitlin! Jess has a boy in my room, I gotta--" The door to Caitlin's room closed behind her, cutting off the rest.

Jess sighed. "I'm sorry."

"No, no, it's okay. I should go."

"I... yeah. But I--I'll see you, Sam, okay? If you wanna come back... If you wanna talk... Whatever. You know where I am."

Sam walked back downstairs turning it all over in his mind. Jess Moore knew what Sam had carried with him from Massachusetts, and she hadn't been scared away.

 

After that, they were inseparable. Sam didn't know what she saw when she looked at him but he knew whatever it was, he needed her to keep seeing it.

He was jagged everywhere that Jess was soft, cut to wound and carve and need and take what should never be his. 

He didn't have to tell Jess things. She always knew what Sam needed her to anyway. Jess was made to fit him, pouring over him and seeping in until his fear was blotted out. Again and again and again. He didn't have to tell her how he always expected too much, he needed too much, he shouldn't--couldn't--wouldn't--didn't deserve. She always kissed him slow and deep and he knew she knew what he was. Her lips formed around his to catch the words before he spoke them. She was always reaching for him, bracing without grabbing, taking. She held him and waited, knowing without caring what the answer ever was. 

She braced him against the doubts, against everything, and he didn't know why. He didn't know how this happened. Did he ask? Did he know she waited for him here, to fill the jagged tears in him? Perfectly formed, clean plains of skin around festering, pitted wounds that scream Dean, Dean. Dean.

Dean didn't mean to leave them there. Sam shouldn't have let them form. It should have been impossible to ache like this for a brother, but Sam almost didn't wish the pain away.

Now he had Jess. Jess always found the marks Dean had left. She ran her hands along him and soothed the burning ache in his chest and she smiled as she did it.

I'm broken, he said each time he kissed, licked into her. I'm sorry. Sorry. And she moved like water, filled and soothed and warmed and cooled him.

"You need me?" she'd ask as she touched him, and the first few times he shored himself up, waiting for "Sammy," waiting to be blown open. But it never came, not in Dean's roughened voice, not with Jess' soft, open vowels. It's Sam. It's Sam. She knew.

He thought of the dreams that The dreams came in blood red and rust brown and raw pulses of fear, pain; not his. Dean. Dean. Dean. Over and over they  
lay him open when the light bled out of the sky at night, and he shivered.

(Dean's hand shook as he held the sawed-off and his shot echoed into the darkness a full two-Mississippi behind Dad's and oh, fuck. Dean hurt and hunting, Dad's rage immediate and oppressive in the air.)

(Dean, a half-step off his game versus a chupacabra that rips four strips of skin and viscera away from Dean's head just over the right eye with jagged claws. John's fury could melt the sky down. Dean brushes it off like he always does when he shouldn't, but Sam is there, tendril of something--something--cutting into Dean where he shouldn't be able to, so he can see.)

He knew down to his bones there was just too much wrong, his so twisted up around Dean that he couldn't stop seeing him, dreaming about him, waking with headaches that made him retch and kept him out of class. 

The first time that Jess witnessed one of the dreams, she said that Sam was just adjusting to his life without Dean (life without Dean) and he ran to the bathroom and retched, blamed it on the headache. When he got back to Jess, all that was on her face was love and concern and Sam knew she didn't--couldn't--mean that Sam would never see Dean again, even if it could somehow be true.

Maybe that was what Sam deserved for never being able to help Dean and stop the curse.

He didn't know what he deserved. Maybe nothing. Maybe a deep expanse of nothing and nothing and--no--after everything, that was too easy. But he didn't know what.

It didn't matter what he deserved, what he needed, not really. Sam knew how to take and have and claim. Even what he might not want, didn't want, shouldn't want. Sam knew how to covet and he was learned to push until things simply became his. He dreamed of Dean, spread open inside and burning, marked with Sam's name over and over. And he let Jessica hold him. He let her run claiming lips, teeth, hands over his skin, offered her yes, please and need you and always and God, Jess. 

She pulled all of these things from him. Somehow. He wanted to beg her not to--please, it isn't right, I'm not--I can't--you don't-- But he didn't. He should have but he didn't. Again and again he didn't, and all he could do was keep himself from examining that too closely. 

Sam dreamed and shored up the walls and dreamed again and built again. He let Jess in and if she wasn't here he knew he'd blow apart. He built around Jess and he waited, quiet and hard and drawn in. She could draw a sea of secrets from him and another sea would fill the space--did every time. She called him Sam and she soothed the impossible and that was enough.

Sam took her. She wanted him too and he took her.

He kept her even after the dreams came more often instead of easing off. He kept her long after the thought of her lover's grim dreams filled her with fear and dread. And Jessica stayed because Sam needed her.

He definitely didn't deserve that.


	6. Part V.

It's time. He feels an impossible pull and he simply goes, pulled toward the rendezvous point agreed upon since golden boy Sam Winchester arrived on the campus to stay.

The little copse of trees on the edge of the campus is silent and dark. The incubus steps into them, keeping the meat-suit's spine straight and his eyes dark and confident. 

Two men stand in among the trees--one an aging husk of a man with reddened, cracked hands but the black eyes of a soldier. Yellow eyes burn in the dark, shining out of the body of the other man, outfitted in UPS browns.

What is it about this guy and uniforms? the incubus thinks, knowing full well his thoughts are anything but shielded from Azazel.

He carries a sheaf of papers with him, stands ready to send the information Azazel requires onto them in a direct beam of power so that their authenticity is never in question. Before he can, there's a rush of heat and power and the incubus feels something tear free from him, the memories of his week on patrol spilling out. 

He staggers back a few steps, dark eyes flashing with sudden fury.

"That--" Azazel begins, answering the incubus' unvoiced question "is for wasting my time." The words are simple but laced with a deadly anger.

"I have been bringing the reports." He adds the barest edge to the words.

Power slams into him, holds him fast against a tree. "Ah. But that's not all you've been doing, little Popo."

The incubus' eyes narrow, indignation sour in his throat at the nickname. "Samuel," he sneers, "may be off-limits but his brother--"

Azazel's grin is menacing. "This has nothing to do with Dean," he says. "This never had anything to do with Dean."

"Then I--"

"This is about what you've done to Sam. Sam is mine."

"I never touched your boy."

"And yet here we are."

The incubus feels a little swell of pride even as Azazel's power presses him down, one milimeter from cutting wholly into his essence.

"I hardly thought you would be one to object to a little incest, Grigori."

Azazel's teeth flash bright in the darkness. "No," he says, yellow eyes shining with dangerous mirth and he leans in close. "But I'll tell you, Sam's new gig? That's where I draw the line. Too bad, really."

Another wave of power hits him in the gut and rips inside, inside the vessel and inside--

Everything is white-hot and dark and terrible, the pain going on and on with Azazel's golden eyes shining over him as his meat suit falls to the earth and he writhes and writhes and--

The incubus' essence is ripped from the meat suit, Azazel's fiery power pushing through it and shredding it until there is nothing, nothing but oblivion.

In the morning, campus police find the body of a man in the woods, dried out and hollow. Greg's well-known for loitering a few blocks away from campus, pressing quarters back into the hands of students for napkinfuls of fries. Dion Shepard nudges the body lightly with a stick and thinks about seeing him with a cup of campus coffee on the corner by the dining hall two nights ago. He swears he feels a crackle in the air.

*~*~*

Jessica was right there with him, mess of limbs twined together in the bed, with Topher sleeping soundly in the next one, when Sam woke to the snick of a lockpick.

Definitely a lockpick. Had to be. He was up and out of the bed before (Dean? Dean.) it turned in the lock again.

He stood there in the dark as the door opened and his brother stepped through. 

He didn't even think--he just moved, all up in Dean's space with his hands on his shoulders. Dean who was solid, was real, was there. 

Sam kept one arm on Dean's shoulder and propelled him back through the doorway, snagging his shoes from the foot of the bed on his way out into the hall.

Sam didn't let go of Dean when they stood in the florescent light of the dorm hallway, Sam squinting and rubbing the back of one hand over his eyes. 

Sam never wanted to let go of Dean (he's here, he's in one piece. one piece. alive.) again. But he should... he had to...

"Are you okay? Did you lose your herbs?"

"Let's keep moving, Sam, c'mon, this place is....

Crawling with civilians. And now Dean was here.

"Are you okay?" Sam repeated, more firm now. Please. Just--

Dean blew out a breath. "Let me get back to you on that," he said, "But not here. I got here fine and I can make it back out. Let's just move, okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Of course, Dean." Sam tightened his grip on Dean's shoulder.

"I'm all right, Sammy. I mean, you don't have to...."

Sam let go of Dean and bent, focused on pulling on his shoes. "Okay," he allowed. He pushed through the dorm door, holding it open as he prompted his brother. "But you're here. Why?" They stepped out into the darkness and Dean began.

"I don't... I was in Canarsie, had this hunt with this guy Rich--"

"You were--where was dad?"

"What, I can't hunt now? I wasn't alone."

"Where. The hell. Was Dad?"

Dean swallowed. "We aren't really-- He hasn't--"

(Dean fires a second too late, and he shouldn't; it's his favorite gun. Fury's palpable in the air.)

"Don't tell me he just--"

"Sam. Don't."

"I--you're sick, Dean! It isn't your fault and he--"

Dean's features hardened. "I said don't fucking do this, Sam. Anyway, what the hell do you know about it, college boy?"

"You sent me here!"

"Like it was hard."

"You-- If you don't want me to help you--if nothing's changed then I--"

Dean snorted. "Spare me, willya?"

"I didn't mean--" Sam blew out a breath and let himself slouch against the building. "Just--" He raised a hand in a gesture of peace. "I don't know what you want, Dean. Tell me."

"Not here. In the car."

Sam raised an eyebrow and pushed off the wall hard, biting back a reply that he might regret. He nodded and let Dean lead him to the Impala.

He stood in front of the passenger side door and waited.

"Get inside," Dean said.

Sam let out a breath and opened the passenger side door, sliding into place with his pulse hammering in his throat.

Dean slammed the driver's side door, looking anywhere but at Sam.

"Okay, come on," Sam prompted, pushing the words out past the dread in his gut and throat. "You gotta tell me."

Dean lowered his forehead to rest on the steering wheel for a second and Sam felt himself reaching out to brush his brother's arm gently.

"Dean."

"I was in Canarsie," Dean said in a rush, "turned out to be a succubus. I don't know--I don't think I woulda gone if I--if I knew, Sammy."

"Okay, but you didn't," Sam said, locking all his panic (God Dean why wasn't I there why couldn't I) deep inside, pushed it away like he had that very first morning. He needed to hear this, to understand every word Dean was telling him.

"If I'd known more about this Richie guy I probably-- I mean, he's a moron. Totally stupid, but maybe he knew just enough, maybe he thought it'd be-- be fun, like you can get-- get something out of a fucking sex demon."

Sam kept his eyes on his brother, thumb moving over Dean's upper arm in calming strokes. "Okay," he said.

"No, it's not okay, Sam."

"I know--"

"Jesus, I fucking hate when you get all... freaky calm on my ass."

"I just--"

"She knew."

"What?"

"She knew about my curse. She knew--she knew my name, Sam. She knew everything."

Sam went still.

"She said... if I came and got you... we'd find what--what we were looking for. We'd--" Dean swallowed, "find out. The truth."

A shiver ran down Sam's spine.

"Do you--did you ever find anything else out? The library's pretty good here, right?"

"No...." Sam "I mean, no, I didn't."

"Yeah. Been kinda busy with Jess--" There was a slight edge to Dean's voice.

But Sam wasn't thinking about that now. He stiffened in his seat. "How did you know her--"

"Relax, geekboy. Dad and I--we drove through the area a couple times, that's all."

Yeah. Drove through. Sam's expression remained wary, his gaze shuttered. Still, as much as the idea of his brother or father looking into Jessica at all made him sick, he had to keep focused. "Demons lie," he said.

"That they do. Maybe she was just blowin' hot air," Dean allowed. "But you asked why I was here."

"Yeah. Not really a lie you want to bank on," Sam murmured.

"Not really, no."

"Hey, um... you said that I didn't have to... um... so you're okay tonight?" Sam asked.

Dean glared at him for a long moment before offering, "I haven't had to do--anything in about six weeks now but I guess it's no thanks to you."

"What? Why didn't you call me?"

"What if I was wrong?" Dean shot back. "Anyway, you're not my babysitter, Sam. So it stopped and I went on a fucking hunt and now I'm getting the third degree from my brother over it. Awesome."

"Dean. You came here. What the hell do you want me to do?"

Dean sighed. "I want to find out what evil son of a bitch did this to me."

"Me too, Dean."

Dean turned to look at him but didn't say anything.

"And we will. Okay? Starting now," Sam said.

"You're serious."

"Of course I am. What am I supposed to-- What's your little fantasy, that I'm supposed to say no, have a nice life?"

"'D be okay if--"

"Jesus, Dean, don't you say that. Don't you fucking say it."

"I... I'm okay now, Sam, it's... over."

"That's why you drove like a bat out of hell from Brooklyn, Dean. Exactly that. It's over." Sam scoffed. "Dean, I begged you to let me help you. I didn't have the answer, but I begged you to--"

Dean stiffened in the driver's seat, hands gripping the steering wheel tight.

"And now you're here and, what, you want to tell me you're here just to drive home that-- What, you're fucking miserable and I'll never be able to do anything about it? That's why you're here? Dean?"

"You have a life now, Sam. You have Jess."

"Yeah. Jess." Sam bit the inside of his cheek, held himself back from telling Dean everything. About the first night on the floor of her dorm room, about the dreams that she pulled him out of almost every night now, a hand-towel in the drawer of her nightstand in case of a nosebleed.

He hadn't ever been able to lie to Jess, not when it counted. "Look," he said, spreading his hands. "She'd understand. Okay? Trust me."

"You told Jessica? About hunting?"

"I... told her that you were sick. Okay? And she knows about--how things were when we were kids. I just left out--the details."

Dean quirked his lips in a humorless smile. "Saving people, hunting things. Why am I not surprised, Sammy? You're always good at tellin' people what they need to hear, nothin' more."

"Yeah, whatever. The point is, Dean-- Jesus, the point is, you're not gonna come all the way here, lay this all out, tell me a fucking succubus--did whatever and then say I should stay here. Stop being the fucking martyr. I'm coming with you, and we're going to find this thing, and we're going to kill it."

Dean stared at him.

"If I get out of this car, are you going to drive away or can I go inside and get my stuff now?"

"I'll be here."

"If you're not here when I come out-- I will--"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm stayin'. Just hurry your bitch ass up."

*~*~*

They didn't really have leads, which meant they didn't have a plan. But Sam was in the Impala again after so, so goddamn long, and Dean was cranking Zeppelin (I had a dream, oh yeah. Crazy dream, uh huh.) and Sam didn't know whether to laugh or sing and probably either one would be embarrassing so he settled for matching the beat on his knees. 

Dean shot him a grin. "You still got it, Sam."

Sam grinned back. "Yeah. Maybe I do."

They were just driving north, soaking up tunes when Dean pulled off the highway for gas.

He pulled the Impala up to the pump and allowed a yawn before opening his door and swinging his legs out of the car. Sam caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned, watched as a redheaded man in overalls headed toward them with purposeful strides.

"Hey, buddy," Dean called, "I only do self-serve--I got it."

The man kept moving, and Dean stood in one fluid motion, danger already in every line of his body. Sam kept his eyes on the stranger, one hand moving for his door handle.

The man raised his right hand in a mocking wave and Dean went up in the air, landing with a metallic thunk against the Impala's frame and falling to the ground. Sam knew instinctively that he would be out cold.

"Sam, my boy," the man said in a gruff baritone. He blinked once and his eyes flashed yellow--the yellow of Sam's dreams.

"We need to talk," said the yellow-eyed man.

Sam sprinted to Dean's side, reaching out in the habitual movements of checking him over for injuries.

"Waste your time on that, Sam, go ahead-- but here's the thing, kiddo, I thought you were looking for me."

Sam froze and turned his attention to the not-man. "What did you do to him?" he growled.

The man smiled and shook his head. "Not too quick on the uptake after all, I guess. I may have overestimated you, Sammy. You see, when a demon of my stature feels that someone is in the way he simply--"

Sam stood, rounding on him. "I will kill you for this," he said, calm and steady like he was reporting the day of the week.

The demon grinned wide through the attendant's face, eyes shining yellow again in the sun. "Now see, that's the Sam I've been waiting for. I have to admit, I wasn't exactly expecting to see you hot and bothered like this so soon--but, you wear it so well, I think I'll count it as a win. Don't you?"

Sam glared and said nothing. 

"It's been a hell of a ride, hasn't it, Sam--but here's the thing. You've got the wrong guy."

Sam opened his mouth to speak and felt a wash of power sliding over him, hot and tingling and wrong. A strand of the power worked its way past his lips and teeth, creating a gag.

"There. Now. As I was saying--we have to talk. If you agree, then I'll let you stay out here with that poor, broken brother of yours. Otherwise we'll have to go inside." He gestured toward the gas station proper. "And I've been playing with my food, so I don't think you're going to like it in there." Another thread of power washed over Sam, bringing with it the smell of blood so strong he choked with it. 

And then the power just kept building, burning along Sam's skin and pulsing into him through the thread snaking in his mouth and all the way down.

Sam's eyes watered and he felt his entire body rebelling under the onslaught of the (demon) yellow-eyed man's power. At the last second before he thought he might not be able to hold on, might rip apart right here in the parking lot of an Exxon station (definitely not saving the whales, Jess), when the demon asked him, "Do we understand each other, Sam?" and released some of the pressure--everything but what was holding him down hard against the car.

Sam nodded, nostrils flaring as he pulled in ragged breaths.

"Fine. Now, understand this, wonder boy. You aren't going to get anywhere blaming me. The fact is, you owe me one. That curse wasn't mine. In fact, I went ahead and dispatched the pissant who thought it would be a good joke."

That didn't make any sense. This was the yellow-eyed man, the one just at the edge of awareness in Sam's dreams. It didn't make any sense.

About as much sense as him walking right out of your dream and into the real world, Sammy, Sam heard Dean say, and something swelled in his chest.

Jesus. Dean. Sam couldn't move. He couldn't get to Dean.

"Why would you--"

The demon shook his head minutely, features hardening into disapproval. He shoved the burning strand of power down through Sam again, silencing him.

Sam panel, Photobucket

"You think you're any good to anyone living some apple pie life?" The demon shook his head. He stepped up to the car, running a hand through Sam's hair, down his cheek. "You know me, Sam. You know where your dreams come from. I can make them start," he snapped his fingers, "and I can make them stop. I know how many times you almost lit out of Palo Alto, Sam. That? That's all me. So Sam, you want to know why I'd do it? Because I can. Because you're mine."

The demon grinned. "And you aren't ever going to escape that. You can't."

He stepped back, feigning a yawn. "So some third-rate incubus decides to mess with you, that's right--you've got me to thank for cleaning up the mess." The demon cocked a finger and a searing pain went through Sam's skull. "The fallen angel who owns you, inside and out. Owns all three of you."

Sam felt himself being released by the power. "You have anything to say to that, wonder boy?"

"You killed my mother. You're what my father's hunting," Sam snarled.

"Bingo. And there's nothing you can do about it. Except what I let you do."

The demon's smile was feral, all white teeth and yellow eyes glinting like hellfire. "Now that's what I call clarity. Thank me later." He turned, heading back into the gas station, and then called over his shoulder, "Oh, when Dean-o says you're lying, ask him about December fifth."

Sam watched him disappear inside and then close and bolt the station door. Then the power let him go, letting him slide down the side of the car and land in a heap beside his brother. Black smoke billowed out of the station and heat blasted Sam's skin as it headed straight for him.

Get moving, the yellow-eyed demon ordered, pushing the thought at Sam on a strand of his essence before it soared into the sky and away on a sudden wind. 

Inside the station, the attendant screamed. Sam smelled smoke and blood and he didn't have to think twice.

He scrambled up and picked up Dean, his brother's skin so cold to the touch after the heat of the demon's power. But Dean was breathing, and Sam could move, so he did, pulling the Impala's keys from Dean's pocket and sliding his brother across the bench seat, stomach rolling as he took Dean's place in the driver's seat. 

And Sam drove.

*~*~*

Dean woke up to the rumble of the Impala on the road, and that was just wrong, because Dean had been asleep and the Impala was definitely moving.

He groaned, shifted around on the seat and swiveled his head toward Sam.

Sam was driving the Impala. And the last thing Dean remembered was that guy in the gas station lot giving him the fucking creeps. And Dean's head hurt like hell.

None of this was adding up to anything good.

"Sam? What the hell happened?"

Sam kept his eyes focused straight ahead. "Well. I think we found the thing that ended your curse."

"Just ended it?"

"Guy from the gas station. He knocked you out, said that he knew what started everything and he killed the thing himself."

Dean blinked. "Man, I miss all the fun around here. So... I'm thinkin' that guy wasn't just some Grounds-Keeper Willie wannabe."

"No. I think he was a demon," Sam said, in that freaky-calm voice, but there was no way Sam was actually calm about what he'd just said. There was just no way.

"A demon? That's seriously fucked up, Sam. He told you he was a demon?"

"Yeah," Sam said, voice still flat.

"Well he could have been lying. These things lie. I mean, that's pretty-- maybe he just wishes he could sit at the big kids' table."

Sam shrugged.

"You don't think he's lying."

"He's something. And he told me to ask you about December fifth. Did it stop then?"

Dean blinked. "Okay, now that's just creepy."

Sam raised his hands in a 'don't look at me' gesture.

Dean narrowed his eyes a little and Sam came into better focus. Fucking concussion. "Sam."

"Yeah?"

"There's something going on with your face. What... that isn't just because my brain wants to escape from my skull right now, right?"

Sam turned to look at him then, startled, and then immediately thought better of it, but not before Dean caught sight of his eyes, pupils uneven and the whites bloodshot.

"Sammy. Jesus. What happened?"

Sam gave a slow shrug. "Think he was a demon," he said. Too flat.

Jesus. 

"Pull the car over, Sam."

Dean didn't even have to raise his voice.

Sam pulled the car over to the shoulder and lowered his head, his shoulders shaking.

Dean shimmied in the seat and put a hand on his brother's arm. Sam's skin burned under his fingers.

None of this was adding up very well at all.

The diagnosis of physical shock was just what Dean expected to come through once they got to the hospital. Sam was still kind of grey and sweating and barely there, really, and there was not too much hurry up and wait at first. Not til after they'd gotten his brother a bit more stable. Right then, Sam was sleeping. They were pushing fluids on him, so Dean knew he wouldn't be asleep long, but watching Sam sleep like that, all clammy and pale and just not right was pretty high up there on Dean's list of things he did not want to be doing.

Finally, Sam opened his eyes and Dean could breathe again.

"What'd you think you were doing driving my car, bitch?" Dean ventured, bracing himself for vacant confusion.

Instead, Sam's lips quirked a little and he shoved lightly at Dean.

Thank you.

"Your head..." Sam croaked, gesturing vaguely. "You hit it hard."

"Yeah. Concussed. They checked it, I'm good."

Sam studied him for a long moment and then nodded.

"So I missed a little more fun than I thought," Dean said, "considering the whole shock thing."

Sam groaned. Dean didn't blame him. Exactly zero of Dean's finest moments had involved pressurized pants.

"You know the deal, Sam. I've got chicken broth," he gestured to a covered bowl on the little rolling table, "Or an endless supply of vending machine decaffeinated beverages. The hot chocolate probably doesn't kill. You want some?"

"Not really."

"Gotta pick one, though."

"Yeah. Okay. I'll--take the broth."

Dean raised an eyebrow "I woulda gone and gotten you hot cocoa," he said.

"Yeah, you would, but you'd rather stay here," Sam said.

"College boy thinks he's so smart," Dean teased, but he couldn't hold back a tired smile. 

Sam shrugged, reaching out for the bowl of soup. Dean pushed the rolling hospital table the rest of the way toward him.

Sam spooned up a little of the broth, frowned at it, and then swallowed the mouthful, face scrunching like it had offended him.

"Might want to go faster," Dean offered. "You can slurp it, I don't care."

"I've been doing this for eight hours now. I do not want to go faster. And I'm sick, not five years old, Dean.

Dean had already opened his mouth to offer a counterargument when Sam's words hit him. He'd almost lost Sam today. If he hadn't woken up--if he hadn't seen Sam's pupils-- Dean's chest clenched up.

Maybe Sam caught something in his eyes, because his face darkened. He lowered his spoon and looked away. "This is so fucked up, Dean. Everything's so fucked up."

"Hey. Hey, Sam. You just--" I could have lost you. Dean swallowed, "Just get better. Lemme worry about the rest."

Sam shook his head hard, like the sheer force of it could work to convince Dean. "You don't... know, Dean. You don't know everything,"

Dean tamped down on everything inside of him and pushed it away. "Why you gotta burst my bubble like that, Sammy?"

Sam only sighed and studied the sheets.

"You gotta drink--"

"I was supposed to help you, Dean," Sam murmured. "I tried, but I just-- I'm supposed to help you, too. I'm not s'posed to be the reason--"

"What?"

"Fuller--"

"Fuck Fuller, Sam. I don't care what he said. We don't need to wear his goddamn bags, so we definitely don't need to-- base our whole fucking lives on what he fucking says." He fished under his shirt and pulled his mojo free, slamming it down on the table. "Okay?"

Sam winced and shrank a little against his pillows, but Dean knew he was right. He'd had six pain-free weeks, and he was thinking more clearly than he had since before the curse was a blip on the radar. He'd come to Sam wearing the bag in case his hunch had been wrong--he hadn't wanted to suddenly realize the seriousness of his error when he landed the Impala in a ditch or against the guard rail.

Sam watched him, and after a moment he nodded. Dean didn't miss the darkness lingering in Sam's eyes all the same.

"Sammy-- Sam," Dean murmured, stepping forward into Sam's space. "I mean it. I know what I'm talkin' about here, Sam. This is not. Your fault."

"The demon--"

"Right now? You seriously need to-- let this go for five minutes, okay? Will you just... just five minutes, Sam, maybe six. Can you do that?"

Sam stared at him with one of his patented "I can't believe we're even having this conversation" looks. His eyes were still dark. Not going to give it up. Surprise.

So Dean leveled a stare right back at him. He could totally out-stare Sam. He was awesome like that.

Sam dropped his eyes to the sheets again and Dean felt a twinge of guilt. Sammy.

"Just-- Sammy. Demons lie," he whispered. "And I don't really get how you could miss this with you being there and all and me being a doorstop, but. Newsflash: you saved us from the demon. You made sure we could get away. You got us through it and you got us away from him. He probably would have left me for dead--"

"You don't know--"

"I know some things, Sam. Let me tell you what I do know."

Sam scoffed and shrugged, gesturing for Dean to go ahead already.

"I know we can't take on a goddamn demon right now," is what slipped out first, and Dean watched Sam stiffen, features hardening and he cursed himself.

Dean raised a hand. "Okay. I know. That was..." he sighed. True. It's true, he thought, and it was, but it was still the wrong thing to say. "That was... stupid. But, Sammy, just--just listen. I-- You need to, okay, because if I don't tell you this now--" Dean's thoughts slipped back toward the night in Virginia, standing at Sam's bedside and just--

"I need you to listen to me."

Sam sat forward a little, combed a hand through his hair and nodded.

"Drink the stupid broth, and I'll talk, okay? Sammy?"

Sam made a face but picked up the spoon. Dean felt himself relax.

"Sam... I'm here because of you. I mean... I was scared, I was, but I-- I needed to--" Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair. "It's... Nothing's ever any good without you, Sam." That came out calm and clear and serious like Dean had been keeping the words just under the surface for months.

He moved further into Sam's space, fingers encircling Sam's wrist before he could stop himself. He didn't think, he just--

Dean leaned forward, tilted his brother's chin up and brushed Sam's lips with his.

Sam's lips were dry, his eyes wide and dark and full of confusion and--fuck--

Sam pulled back. "Don't--you don't want--this," Sam swallowed and they sat in stunned silence.

"I--"

"Why?" Sam asked, and Dean couldn't look at him. Sam didn't move closer or try to touch him but he kept his voice low  
"You've never--wanted this before. Even--"

Dean shook his head. "I--thought-- Fuck, I almost lost you, Sam, and I can't. I can't lose you."

"So you-- That was supposed to be for me? You think you have to--to make me stay? Dean... I'm right here." He gestured around the room with his totally gigantic arms. "And it's not like I'm going anywhere soon."

Dean stepped forward again. Please. Sam caught him in the chest with one arm. His eyes were huge and solemn in his face. "You don't have to perform for me, Dean. You don't have to win me."

"But I... This isn't how..."

"No." Sam's voice was gentle. "This isn't how we're going to do this, Dean. Okay? Just...." Dean pulled back a little but Sam held him in place for a second, his eyes locked on Dean. "We will. Just...not--"

And this was not the way it was supposed to go, it wasn't. But Sam wasn't even ever supposed to know and now-- Dean let himself press forward into him because-- Sam.

Sam caught him and pulled him in close (Sam Sam Sam is okay) and maybe Dean was shaking a little but that was all.

"It's still the same... with you... Sammy. I can't-- It's still the same."

Sam's hands were around the back of his neck now, his breath warm against Dean's skin. "Okay. We can--we'll handle it, Dean, okay? Just..."

"'M sorry."

"Dean. No...."

"I didn't want you to know."

Sam scoffed. "That's healthy." He pulled Dean tighter against him, though. 

"Don't get me started on healthy, Sam."

"We're okay. I've got you."

Right then Dean realized that was all he needed to hear.


	7. Part VI.

Sam knew where he was somehow, without even opening his eyes. Something just felt--familiar, apart from the steady roll of the Impala on the road. Something was--

"You're listening to KFOX, classic rock--"

SHIT.

Sam bolted upright in his seat. "Dean," he growled.

"Yeah?"

"What the hell are we doing he--"

"Sam, come on."

Sam stared at him and Dean sighed, slowed the car down but didn't stop.

"I thought you knew I--" Sam began.

"You have a life here. You just started here. You've got a scholarship. You've got a girl."

Sam stared at Dean, incredulous. "What the hell was all that at the hospital then? Jesus, Dean, are you just-- Can you not listen to a single word I say?"

"You don't want to give this up, Sam."

"You don't want me to give this up because you're scared, Dean. But if you asked me--if you listened, then you'd know--"

They were pulling off of the highway in Palo Alto and in five minutes they'd be back at the dorm. Fuck.

"You'd know there's nothing left for me here. I got nothin', just a scared-shitless girlfriend who thinks... you're dying." He whispered the words, a lump forming reflexively in his throat. He cleared it and pressed on. "And a bunch of grades in the shitter."

"What? Sam?"

"S'not going to get better, Dean--I don't fit here. I--Jess, that was a lucky thing but I just don't. And she knows, and I scare her and she just-- If I stay I'm just going to lose the money."

Dean stared at him. "You've always been great at school, Sam. You can do it. You know--"

"Not without--I don't want to do it without you, Dean. I can't. I don't... want... to be here. And nobody else wants me here, either." His voice dropped again. "Except maybe you."

They had driven onto the campus proper, and as soon as Sam could see the dorm in the distance his hand was on the door handle. He needed to get out of here. He just needed to breathe--he needed to--

The air outside of the car was so hot, like burn-the-bones hot, like fire, like--

Thank me later.

Sam felt the press of power against his skin and an impossible sickness passed through him. Sam should have toppled under the weight of it, the burn, but there wasn't anything but a slight hitch in his step as the power settled over him, holding him up (burning through him) and propelling him forward. Forward to the dorm.

"Sam!" Dean called, wrenching the driver's side door open and sprinting toward him.

But all Sam knew was the whorling golden darkness that encased him somehow now, sped his footfalls so that he naturally outran Dean all the way back to the building. To Jessica. Jess and Topher and Becky and smoke so thick. Jess.

Sam broke into a dead run, probably the fastest he'd ever run in his life.

"Sam?!" Dean called after him, but Sam just kept going.

No one was outside of the dorm yet when he got there. There wasn't even that much smoke yet, but Sam knew. He knew. He barreled inside the building with Dean on his heels. Jess. Jess. He went past his floor and up to hers and then there was smoke--pouring out from behind the door. 

"Jesus!" Dean shouted and Sam aimed a kick at the doorknob, felt wood splintering under his foot and flung himself through the doorway.

Something was--something was holding onto him tight now, pulling him back, but the room was a mass of flames and Sam smelled blood and Sam was not going to leave Jess like this, Jess who had dared to--who had dared to love Sam.

Dean froze, eyes focused upward, and then he gave Sam one final yank, a holdover from sparring practice designed to give Dean the upper hand despite Sam's weight. Sam backpedaled a step and let out a wordless scream in protest.

"Sam, she's gone!"

No! No! "NO! JESS! NO!"

People were streaming out of the hall past them. Someone else grabbed for Sam, and Sam recognized the voice of Jess' RA, Tracy. "Sam?" She pulls her hand back from his shoulder, confused. "Were you in-- We've got to go, Sam! Come on!"

Dean settled an arm around Sam and started propelling him down the hall. Sam knew enough even now not to fight Tracy. She was five two and looked pretty butch on the outside but Sam could hurt her very badly without really even thinking about it.

He let Dean propel him down the stairs. Once Tracy saw they were moving out she dashed off herself and disappeared.

Students kept pouring out and firemen were racing into the building. Out on the lawn, Tracy stood with a small group of upperclassmen, shaking her head and using words like "hardcore" and "crazy" and shooting Sam nervous glances.

The cops were next and then Sam knew he couldn't leave. He couldn't leave even if they wouldn't believe a word he said. 

*~*~*

They stayed in Palo Alto for a week. Sam had his moments of clarity--brief flashes when he was talking to the police, Jess' mother. When he was alone with Dean, though, he didn't have to be anything and so he wasn't. 

Dean was torn between working the case and staying with Sam, finally reminding himself that if Sam could right then, he would have been working the case like a man possessed--Dean knew that much from experience. So he worked the case during the day, asked Sam about the who's who Sam gave the police and just went with it the best he could. Mostly, Dean stayed focused on making Sam eat, keeping him from staring at walls (much). But he worked the case and he followed every lead he had. They weren't much and no matter how much it was probably going to be the same verdict with or without Sam, this-- This was going to haunt both of them.

Finally, they left Palo Alto. Dean got everything in the car and gunned it and he didn't care where they were going and neither did Sam. They just needed some time. Sam needed some time.

The further they got from California, the better Sam seemed. There were days now when he seemed almost the old Sam again and Dean could almost forget--except that he could never forget the way that Sam thrashed in his sleep at night, screaming Jess' name into the darkness.

So Dean drove, and he took care of the car and he bought the meals. As long as he stayed out of the seedy dive bars, he was fine.

He was fine.

*~*~*

Dean woke suddenly, breathing shallow and strained. The nightmares were still happening regularly, though not every night like they used to. Sam's own had started to ease off a little and he had room to think about just how little Dean was sleeping, the slump of his brother's shoulders, the tightness of his jaw.

Some nights Sam didn't think of any of these things. Some nights, he just couldn't.

But tonight he could.

Sam pulled himself out of bed and padded across the room to his brother. "Hey," he whispered, before dropping a hand to Dean's shoulder.

Dean's shivering was the only response he got.

"Dean?"

Dean shifted away and Sam pulled his hand back. "Shouldn't," Dean whispered, his tone thick with emotion.

Sam shook his head a little. "Hey. No. This isn't--your fault."

Dean drew in a breath. "There were so many of them," Dean said.

"I know," Sam said, clamping down on his regret.

"You were right. It was-- When you weren't there it was-- I couldn't stop them. I couldn't ever stop."

Sam's eyes stung. Guilt rippled through him as he felt the burn in them but (Dean) he couldn't stop. "I wanted to help...."

"I know."

Sam cleared his throat. "So I... I'll be here... Right here, Dean, and if you need--"

His brother stiffened in the bed.

Sam buttoned in a sigh and settled a hand against the sheets beside Dean. "If," he reminded gently.

Dean sagged a little and nodded.

"Want me to stay here?"

Dean bit his lip and nodded again.

"Anything else?"

Dean watched him silently for a moment before closing his eyes and shaking his head. Then he opened them again.

"Anything. It's all right."

Dean brought a hand up to Sam's face, brushing his fingertips against his brother's five o'clock shadow. Then in one movement he was sitting up and leaning in to take Sam's lips with his own.

Sam leaned in a little, letting Dean lead, but Dean pulled back quickly, making a strangled noise in his throat.

"Dean. What's--"

Dean started to shiver again. "Can't... it's... I can't stop seeing--them, Sammy. I can't.... It's like I can't... stay here. With you."

Sam shivered, thinks back to something Jess said once about dissociation. Dean. Dissociating. Fuck.

"Want it to be you, Sammy."

"Yeah. Hey. Lemme... Maybe I can... just... hold you and maybe help you stay. Don't have to do anything... We shouldn't if you," he gestured vaguely with one hand, "aren't really...."

Dean winced but nodded. "Yeah," he breathed. "Sam."

Sam pressed a hand to his arm briefly and nodded.

Dean shimmied over. It was Sam who was supposed to be holding onto him, keeping him steady, but Dean reached out for Sam first and held on tight. Dean was thrumming with nervous exhaustion and Sam pulled him even closer, waiting-- waiting.

Dean took a breath and blew it out slow. Sam felt the tension slowly easing out of him. "Okay," he whispered. "Got you."

"Yeah." Dean pressed his forehead into Sam's t-shirt. "Yeah."

"You're okay."

Dean pressed closer and Sam didn't think about the sudden dampness building against his skin.

They lay there quietly for a long while, neither relaxing enough to fall back asleep. After a while, Dean tilted his head up and kissed Sam's jaw lightly. "Thanks," he murmured.

"'Course," Sam whispered back and let out a relieved sigh as Dean slipped into sleep.

After that night, they took rooms with only one bed in them whenever they could. It was just simpler, and served to allay any of Dean's fears or triggers before they could bowl him over. They spent their nights curled around each other. If there was a resemblance to the way any of this started, well, Sam added that to the list of things he wasn't going to examine too closely.

Four months had gone by. Sam still hadn't seen Dad since--he didn't even know when, but it'd been thirty-seven days since the morning Dean passed him the cell and Dad said, "I'm sorry about your girlfriend, Sam," and Sam's knuckles went white around the phone.

"It's a demon, Dad," Sam said.

"I know."

"I want to kill it. I want--"

"Too dangerous, Sam," Dad had said. Then he added, low, "That's what he wants you to say. That's what he's waiting for."

Sam clenched his jaw, flung a pad of hotel stationary off the table. "So what about you?"

"You and Dean take care of each other," Dad said. "Stay under the radar."

Yeah, Dad. I'm under the fucking radar.

"Give me that before you snap it in two. I like this one," Dean said, reaching for the phone with one hand and cupping the back of Sam's neck with the other.

Sam felt himself leaning back into the touch and froze. Expecting too much again, Winchester. He braced himself, waiting for some kind of reaction from Dean. 

Dean chuckled and patted Sam on the back. "I see how it is," he said low. "You can't resist." In the next second, Dean had drawn back, but...

"Relax. Secret's safe with me." Dean leaned in and pecked him on the lips, then drew back, a slight flush on his own cheeks. He cleared his throat. "We're good."

Sam smiled a little and shook his head.

On a night in April, four months after the fire, Dean lay beside Sam in their bed, looked into Sam's face and said, "You really meant it."

"Mm?"

"You--you're staying. Even with... all this fucking crap."

Sam gave him a wry smile. "Yeah. That's what I've been trying to tell you. I never even wanted to leave--"

Dean sighed. "Yeah, you did. Look, just because something--happened, doesn't mean you shouldn't have tried, Sam."

Sam felt his jaw tighten. "Yeah... well. Tell that to Jess."

Dean rolled away a little. "Sorry. Sammy, I'm so--"

Sam sighed. "I know. Don't.... C'mere."

"We really--"

"It helps," Sam whispered. "I mean... you help."

Dean turned over and blinked at him. "Okay," he said, and he let Sam pull him in close.

They didn't really go to bars that often anymore unless they were interviewing locals. A few times, Dean pulled off the road at a random exit and trawl the streets for a bar in the middle of the day, pulling Sam in for a game of pool while the place was still cool and empty, but at night they'd hit up a liquor store and bring their haul back to the car or the room.

In May, about a week after Sam turned twenty, Dean knocked back a final beer and murmured, "C'mon inside, Sam," green eyes shining when Sam dutifully pushed off of the Impala's frame and matched his stride.

Once inside, Dean grabbed Sam's wrist and led him to the bed. "C'mon."

"I'm right here," Sam said.

Dean scoffed. "Yeah. I know. Just...."

"What?"

"I thought--don't you ever get bored, Sam? Just... doing whatever you're doing here?"

"Did you ever get bored," Sam asked, "when I needed you?"

"What-- Do you have to answer every question with a question?"

"Do you?"

"Oh, bitch, it is so o--"

Sam leaned in and kissed Dean, hard and sudden. Dean let out a soft huff of surprise and Sam pulled back, running a hand through Dean's hair. "That. Is that what you want?"

Dean opened his mouth to reply and shut it again before offering Sam a nod. He reached up toward Sam and then hesitated. "I... fuck."

"Not goin' anywhere, Dean. I'm listening."

Dean blew out a slow breath. "It was-- just always about what I could give them, you know? What they thought I could give them. Total bullshit."

"So now..." Sam began, "You need to just..." He bit his lip. "Let me. Let me give you something. Okay, Dean?"

Dean straightened up suddenly and nodded. "Yeah, Sammy, please."

"I will." Sam leaned in, pressed a gentle kiss to Dean's neck.

Dean shivered, leaning into it, but he let his brother continue to lead. "Sam."

Sam bared his teeth, gently nipping along Dean's neck. "Tell me. Tell me what you need, Dean."

"Need you to take me, Sam, I-- I need it to be you."

Sam paused, offering Dean a questioning look and Dean flushed.

"Please," Dean said. "I-- I'm ready. I need--"

"Jesus, Dean," Sam said thickly and leaned in to kiss him again, teeth scraping purposefully over his bottom lip. "You don't--" he murmured, punctuating his words with claiming kisses, "You don't--have to--beg me."

"So shut up," Dean said, squirming closer, letting his hands fall to the waist of his jeans. "And do it."

"Dean, God...." Sam's arms went around him and he pressed into Dean, pushing him back onto the bed.

Dean shimmied his pants down his legs and arched up against Sam. He was hard inside of his briefs. He had been waiting, waiting for Sam, and (God) that was all Sam needed to know.

Sam reached to the nightstand, palmed his wallet and pulled out the condom stashed there, digging a little in an outer pocket of his bag for the lube.

"You can take this back," Sam said, "If you--"

"Jesus, Sam, you're holding a tube of fucking sex grease in your hand and you think I'm going to say no to you right now? Seriously?"

Sam grinned. "Okay, then," he said, and leaned down to kiss Dean again.

And it wasn't as gentle as Sam had wanted it to be but it wasn't as hard and claiming and miserable as Dean probably expected, either. It was just-- Sam and Dean.

Afterwards, Dean lay loose-limbed and sleepy in the bed. "I still don't even know what this is," he almost whispered, as if afraid of what Sam might say when he heard.

Sam didn't really know either, but Dean was here and he was--he was going to be all right.

"This is us," Sam said.


End file.
